Ha ha Chubby bigtits secretary in stockings teasing

by Ollie Wallace

professionally made.
I appreciated that the young,
the gullible
-oraddition to growing hair
he plays a number of
wind instruments which

If I have only thirty days
to go
shouldn’t you be telling

And I’m right before an open grave


The gold melted, bubbled up, and spread all over the house like running water

Without hesitating, therefore, he declared to Finette that he had come to marry her. Finette’s hostess had scarcely reached the village when she hastened to the house of the steward.
“Marriage or prison, which do you choose?”
“Oh!” cried Finette, laying down the distaff, “there are the firebrands falling all over the room.”
Stroking her cheeks, he began to move back and forth, very gently and slowly, taking great care not to hurt her.
“Villain, may the tongs hold you, and may you hold the tongs till sunset!”
No sooner said than done.
“Oh, I can’t believe it; you have your sweet prick buried all the way into my ass.”
Finette wiggled upon it, testing, experimenting, and her pussy contracted below. But, on entering the house, he was much more surprised and delighted to find a beautiful young girl, with raven hair, sitting by the window and spinning on her distaff with the air of an empress.
“Roll on over, darling–onto your belly, and bring your knees under your body, so your ass pokes up.”
For his only answer, he took a roll of parchment from his pocket, wrote on it a contract of marriage, and declared to Finette that, should he stay all night, he would not leave the house till she had signed the promise.
Finette didn’t give a damn if he did hurt her; anything that happened within her narrow hose would be a wanton rapture, and she slid around upon the meat socked so firmly inside her tail. The moment that the sun set, the tongs fell from the steward’s hands.
“You’re both dripping with my come,” The son said.
“If it should come to the ears of the bailiff or the seneschal,” said he, “the least that would happen to you, mother, would be to lose every one of these beautiful bright guineas. The cockhead is going in you–and wow! It’s really hot and tight in there.”
She knew the exact moment when Yvon came, and rocked the darling girl lovingly in her arms as the tiny ass bucked in hectic spasms. But the son sensed that his mother craved to share that ultimate moment, and pulled his spitting cockhead from his wife’s wringing pussy.
“Have you the tongs?”
“Yes,” said the steward, picking up the crackling coals. He made such leaps, he uttered such groans, he was so blackened, scorched, and benumbed, that everyone in the village was afraid of him, thinking that he was mad.
The bailiff had heard the story of the guineas and had also made up his mind to marry the stranger.
The steward listened to the old woman’s story, shook his head, and said it looked like witchcraft; then he mysteriously brought a pair of scales, weighed the guineas, which he found to be genuine and of full weight, kept as many of them as he could, and advised the owner to tell no one of this strange adventure. Old women do not know how to hold their tongues, at least in Brittany.
The gold melted, bubbled up, and spread all over the house like running water, and behold! the whole cottage, the walls, the thatch, the wooden rocking-chair, the stool, the chest, the bed, the cow’s horns-everything, even to the spiders in their webs, was turned to gold.
He was not rough, like the steward, but a fat, good-natured man that could not speak without bursting into a laugh, showing his great yellow teeth, and puffing and blowing like an ox, though at heart he was not less obstinate or less threatening than his predecessor.
When Finette had milked the cow and drank a little new milk, she threw herself on the bed without undressing, and, worn out by the fatigue of the day, fell asleep in the midst of her tears. Every tender stroke he made into her impaled body was a loving movement, and she could feel the juices of her cunt oozing from her labia to wet her thighs.
“Lay them carefully on the top of the ashes,” returned Finette.
Even when they have decided not to refuse, a gallant man spares their blushes. He did not stop to finish his errand, but ran as if the devil or justice were at his heels. She loved him for his thoughtfulness, and her ass twisted as the starchy rivulet oozed down the crack of her excited ass.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said the steward; “I will pick them up.”
His magical staff was gone again, plunged once more into the sweet, hot glove the girl’s churning pussy, driven to the veined hilt inside her sinuously rolling snatch.
At evening, when Finette returned home in despair, instead of the steward she found another visitor little less formidable.
Before dawn he rose to make his rounds in the direction of the stranger’s cottage.She clasped her hands and begged him with tears to go. Even though she should be something of a witch, such a girl would none the less be a treasure in a family.
“It–it’s fabulous,” she groaned.
Finette gasped as she felt the downpour of her son’s semen, the splattering of the oystery fluid that rained upon her own cunt lips and soaked her pussy hairs.
“Relax as much as you can and stay loose; don’t tighten down on me, and it’ll go fine.”
She kept her word so well that she only told her story that evening to two neighbors, her dearest friends, both of whom swore on the heads of their little children to keep it secret. The young girl burst out laughing, upon which the steward flew into a passion. Her nipples dug into the carpet, and she liked the small pain.
The oath was a solemn one, and so well kept that at noon the next day there was not a boy of six in the village that did not point his finger at the old woman, while the very dogs seemed to bark in their language, “Here is the old woman with her guineas!”
A girl that amuses herself by filling milk-pails with gold is not to be found every day.
Yvon nudged her hip.
“Both my beautiful fuckable cunts are all milky with my semen–my mother’s pussy and wife’s pussy.”
The house gleamed in the moonlight, among the trees, like a star in the night. Justice is impartial; it knows neither favor nor repugnance; it takes the whole. He was fucking his mother from behind, sticking that young boy meat into his mommy’s ass, taking the cherry there that no man or woman had ever touched.
Containing himself, controlling his pent-up emotions, the son was giving them both a magnificent fucking, a priceless screwing they would both remember for the rest of their lives.
Like all men, the steward did himself justice, and knew, at the bottom of his heart, that there was not a woman in the world that would not be too happy to give him her hand.  Without warning, his cockhead flexed to spray a burning rain of come into her tubing, and he squeezed her breasts as he let go.
On reaching the place, he was greatly surprised to find a golden cottage instead of the wretched hut that had stood there the day before. The son bent over her, reaching down and around to take hold of her swinging tits, his pelvis grinding hungrily into the soft pillow of her ass. Four lingering strokes, five–then the greasy knob was back below, reaching blindly for the welcoming embrace of his mother’s cunt. He laughed, and hinted to her, in a good-natured way, that, by right of his office, he had the power to imprison and hang people without process of law.
“Abracadabra!” cried Finette, rising.
“If you do not accept me for a husband this very instant, I will arrest you, and before night, perhaps, a witch will be burned before Kerver Castle. You want it like this, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Finette moaned, and realized why the girl had collected the semen.
He jammed it home, and Finette took it breathlessly, joyfully.  Inch by exploring inch, the boy’s spongy, hard-cored bulb eased into her ass, and suddenly the length of his stiff prick slid up, up, and his balls settled into the parted vee of her thighs, his pelvis against her cheeks. Boyish prick that had dipped into adult cunts, she thought; such a young cock, to have already fucked two mature women and stroked so often in a girl’s alluring little oven as well; the son would go on sampling women’s vaginas, she knew, making many others happy; she hoped it would always come back to her own.
No one knows who you are or whence you came.
She exulted in what she was able to give him like this. His flanged cockhead reached and withdrew, rolled around inside Finette’s feverish hole and brought her jerking, heaving to a culmination that made her drum her heels upon the floor.
“Don’t let it all get soaked up,” Finette heard the girl say. Finette churned her ass around his meat, coming and coming as he sagged. It was in her; her son’s beloved cock was really in her ass.
Sighing, Yvon disengaged herself rom the tangle, rolling from Finette’s body and off to one side. By the first gleam of day he spied something shining in the distance like a light among the woods.
“We Bretons are plain-spoken people,” replied the steward; “we go straight to the point. The gold that you gave the old woman has raised suspicions.”
Would it hurt? Could it feel as good as that fleeting moment when, in the squirming heat of passion, someone had slipped a finger into her anus? The slippery tip of her son’s glans pressed into the equally greasy knot of her asshole, pushing tenderly. There is magic in this house.
It was useless for him to shout, pray, weep, and blaspheme; no one heard him. The girl jerked with every burying of the slick meat, her tremors passing through her straining body and into Finette’s sensitive flesh.
“Here, baby–let me scoop some of it into my hand–”
Finette started to move, bringing her legs together as she felt her son backing from between them. The son was coming, too, she thought; the boy’s scrotum was shuddering; all that creamy richness was spewing into the childlike vagina, drenching it with his bubbling juices. They were both being rewarded with the fluids of the boy’s wondrous balls, his some purling inside and our of Yvon’s shivering cunt, and smearing itself into Finette’s pulsating box.
He was an important personage, who had more than once made her tremble when she had driven her cow into her neighbor’s pasture by mistake.
“Take it easy, Mom,” he said from behind her.  “That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
The old woman thanked the steward for his advice, and promised to follow it.  In and out, his balls caressing Finette’s steamy cunt with every stroke, The son pumped his distended tool strongly into Yvon, and Finette could feel them, too. Finette felt her son’s fuzzy balls against the wet mouth of her deprived cunt, the slow back-and-forth swinging of the sack as The son pumped his insatiable rod into his wife’s wriggling body.
The steward, who was a bachelor, made this wise reflection that night on going to bed. She was panting against her folded arms when she felt warm, greasy fingers working the guey stuff into the rim of her asshole, and a violent thrill pierced her, all the way up to her throat.  It was to lubricate the head of the son’s cock, so that it would be easier to get into the tightness of her tube.  She felt it; she knew the strange, almost frightening sensation and fought to keep from tightening. And slowly, every so slowly, the reluctant circle began to give, to stretch. Closing her eyes, Finette waited, her pulses racing insanely.
“You are very amiable,” said Finette, with a charming grimace; “you have a peculiar way of paying court to ladies.”
The wicked steward stood there all day with the tongs in his hand, picking up and throwing back the burning coals that snapped in his face and the hot ashes that flew into his eyes.  Then her son’s sudsy knob was at the hairy ring, his hands braced upon the cheeks of her ass, his knees between her own.
“I am the master here.”
“Easy,” he murmured, “just hang loose, baby.”
“Take care!” said he, in a terrible voice. Rolling her ass, Finette lifted her tits from the rug and dug her fingers into it, arching her back, swaying her hips and taking him, loving him, backing fiercely into him while her cunt leaped and trembled as her maddened clitoris tried to break out of its hood. Finette entreated the bailiff to leave her alone.
Lightly, she kissed his downy cheek and watched the play of the boy’s ballooning knob along her skin, admiring the cunning sculpture of its design and the beauty of its coloring. Flames seared her vagina and her asshole was wiggling steam hose; the son pumped more strongly into it, and she could hear his breath, harsh and uneven in his throat.
Finette had stayed at home, she would doubtless have taken pity on him; but after putting the spell upon him, she hastened to the seashore, where, forgetting everything else, she watched for Yvon in vain.
The boldest tried to speak to him, but he fled without answering, and hid himself in his house, more ashamed than a wolf that has left his paw in the trap.

Sometimes the most powerful man in the world is a little kinky

1To the left, if you must know.
“Thank you so much for coming,” says the President of all the United States. “They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.  As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains.”
(It was the thirty-sixth American president, Lydon Johnson, who said that pantyhose ruined finger-fucking).
And yet, at this moment – a moment that will define a generation – it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.
I gaze into his eyes. Only a street address. His pupils are wide, dilated.
”Nobody dismisses me.”
I cross my legs, let my skirt ride halfway up my thighs. Just anything.
Still holding my hand he reads the press card hanging low down my chest.  Maybe even glimpse a nipple.
What question?
Who cares?
I’m overwhelmed.
What must the President of the United States think of a foreign correspondent who giggles inanely? He doesn’t seem to mind at all.
I decide I have nothing to lose so I slide the skirt a little higher, right up to the darker stocking top.
“Don’t answer it, Mr. President.”
He works fast.
“It’s so big it can get real lonely sometimes.”
The telephone rings again. For our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals.
Fuck.  He admires a lot longer than is quite necessary to read the words on the pass.  I have to.
“My secretary will give you the answer to your question on the way out. And those of us who manage the public’s dollars will be held to account – to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day – because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.”
I realize this could be a cue.  I shudder, sigh encouragement.
The President of the United States struggles up from the couch, scoots across the Oval Office carpet holding his trousers up with one hand, his rampant cock swaying in front of him.
“You’re new here and I just wanted to meet you.”
I guess he has a busy schedule. I know this dance.  Where the answer is no, programs will end.
Now that it’s fully erect, the presidential cock is bent half-way along. He tries to get up but I hold onto his zip.  I’ve made a lot of money out of knowing the symptoms.
“I noticed you at the news conference.”
His eyes flicker back to my breasts. He waves me away imperiously, gestures towards the door.
“I feel cold, lonely, exposed, silly.”
Not even the most powerful man in the world.  The thought so excites him that he cums right then.  I lean forward, put one hand behind his head, pull him down to me, he asks and “oh jesus it’s a lot bigger than where I live”.
He grins again.  He changes the subject.
“Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. It is the firefighter’s courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent’s willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate. Sixty-four Sussex Drive.”
It’s a gentle, rolling laugh.  I go around the desk to the front, get down on hands and knees and crawl under.  He realizes that’s not believable and grins like a small boy caught stealing candy. One hand cups a breast, fingers the nipple, leaves the breast, runs down my belly to my knee.
To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds.  He struggles to get away.  I try to sit on his lap.  The hand goes to my pussy. We’re a bit different. It would look really great with a yo-yo hanging from it.
“Call me Bill. Cretin, or something similar.”
So the President of the United States can be a bit kinky. And a lot handsomer, although there’s greying at his temples and lines starting around his eyes. He smells of man and power and really expensive cologne.
“But what if I really, really want something and I’m prepared to pay whatever price?”
I squeeze the presidential hand and put him on.
“Whoever it is can wait.”
”You might get it” he quotes ruefully. His tongue slips between my lips.
“That’s very kind of you.”
Still kissing me, his hand slides up my skirt, past my stocking top.
“For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness.”
“But you’ve got all these flunkies around to do your every whim.”
I let go of his cock. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control – and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous.
I’ll wait.
When he looks up I hold his gaze to show I know exactly what he’s thinking, provocatively run my tongue around my lips. Sometimes the most powerful man in the world is a little kinky.
“I know.  Never want anything too much.”
“So how do you like it? The White House, I mean.”
We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.  The timing is awful. Such a good start.
The most powerful man in the world puts down his pen, gets up from behind the desk and walks toward me across the carpet with his hand out. I sit and smile demurely.
“You saucy hussy you.”
Like the time he talks sweet nothings to his wife on the phone while jerking off in my hair and I have to walk back through the White House and work in the Press Room with the presidential cum doubling as Revlon mousse.  Anything you want. The President of the United States is horny.  I’ll try and remember.
”Any time you want it”
I’m glad I’m wearing stockings and not pantyhose.
“I’m glad you did.”
“This your first time in the White House, Samantha?”
“My friends call me Sam.”
A telephone rings.  I’ve dined there.  It fits the dance. He groans. The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works – whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified.
”Funny name.”
He’s a man who likes breasts. I’ve danced it myself.  Please let go.
“We don’t have a White House in Canada,” I blather.
A finger slips easily inside me. I lean towards him so the dress falls open again just like it’s supposed to and he can see my breasts again just like he’s supposed to. I kneel between the presidential legs right in front of the presidential cock still thrusting out of the presidential trousers.  Like maybe kiss the President of the United States. Other than that, it’s a fine example of a rampant, rigid medium-to-large, mid-West, middle-aged male sexual organ.
For a moment I wonder if it’s a crude, unpresidential order.To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect.
“I don’t think we’ve met before,” I giggle inanely.
I understand men who like breasts.
“We know where you live.”
His hand is strong.  Our Founding Fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. The President of the United States smiles a dazzling, friendly smile, lets go of my hand, gestures me to the deep, leathered couch. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience’s sake. Like the time he hands out awards to a gaggle of Boy Scouts in badges, knotted scarves and cute little khaki shorts.  If it is, he’s moving fast.
“To tell the truth, only the really good-looking ones.”
I know the symptoms. I like speed so I take a chance.
“To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society’s ills on the West – know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy,” says the President of the United States. “We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves.”
He’s even bigger than he was in the Rose Garden. I groan back. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.
”They have something to tell us, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages.”
I feel considerably better.
“Why honey.”
“Lots of times.”
“Hi Samantha.”
“Like what, Samantha?”
“Call me Sam.”
We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.
I savour his taste. I step out of the thong, toss it on the couch and follow.  Thank god I shaved this morning. He has a very nice grin.  Like the time he keeps the President of Mexico waiting in the anteroom until I cum, sprawled and groaning in the presidential chair with my skirt hiked up around my waist and the President of the United States ramming a fine Cuban cigar in and out of my pussy.
We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus – and non-believers.
And so to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and we are ready to lead once more.  I have to answer it.  It can wait. I’m not used to men hesitating when I offer to kiss them.
He sits down behind the desk, picks up the phone.
“Do you meet all the White House correspondents on their first day, sir?”
“I try to.”
Like the time I ask him about the meaning of the Great Seal of the United States of America woven into the centre of the Oval Office’s royal blue carpet.
”You can answer it but. ”
The President of the United States rests a large presidential hand on my thigh, just above my knee.
“Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward.”
I’m alone in the Oval Office with the President of all the United States.
“Pretty good Canadian wine though.”
The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our Gross Domestic Product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on the ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart – not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.
“It means make peace, not war” he says.
It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours.
Still kissing him, I undo the top buttons on my dress, take a presidential hand and guide it inside. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to the suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world’s resources without regard to effect.  I angle my shoulders forward so my dress gapes like it’s supposed to and the President of the United States can admire my breasts cupped inside the wispy, black, demi-cut flower-lace bra like he’s supposed to. The Scouts can’t take their eyes off my shaved pussy. His fingers linger.  We are the keepers of this legacy.
He stiffens for a moment, grasps the idea and bends.
“Please honey,” he laughs.
Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort – even greater cooperation and understanding between nations.  It’s the yellow phone.  Just a little.
I pretend to be the kidnapper negotiating ransom in a thousand movies.  It’s a perfectly normal White House scene – a reporter sitting on the couch taking notes during a routine presidential ceremony – except that on presidential instructions I’m wearing a miniskirt with no panties and don’t always remember to keep my legs crossed.
Possibly even a nipple or two.
With old friends and former foes, we’ll work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. For the world has changed, and we must change with it. For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. Particularly the female good-looking ones.
He pulls his hand out from under my skirt and sits up.  Immediately I’m embarrassed.  With that French guy who hardly speaks English.
I pull down the zip, fumble inside his trousers for the presidential cock, find it half erect, pull it out.
I smile sweetly throughout the ceremony and wonder what the hell the kids tell their parents.  Like the time he fucks me on my hands and knees on the presidential desk while I study a photograph of him with his wife and daughter at some beach and try not to knock Top Secret files off the desk.  He pushes me off.
“Ok .”
Suddenly everything’s going so wrong. He takes his eyes off my legs, sits on the couch next to me. Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with the sturdy alliances and enduring convictions.
He hesitates. He groans, pushes me back on the couch, half under him. All my friends do.  But the moose was a little tough.
Still standing, the present American president studies my legs. While he’s fucking me he explains that underneath me – only inches from my nipples in fact – is an eagle clutching arrows in one claw, olive branches in the other.
“You want an answer to your question?”
For a moment I don’t know what he’s talking about.  We shake hands. What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them – that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply.
Casually I put my small hand on top of the large hand on my thigh.  Stocking tops and garter-belts are so much sexier than pantyhose. I don’t mean to be rude.
I reach for the presidential zipper.  I shift on the couch to give him a better view.  We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan.  The rumours are true.
I lift my buttocks so he can pull my thong down.  But what if my getting his rocks off stops him from raising taxes or getting really, really mad and dropping bombs on people he doesn’t like?
What if I’m not just getting the world’s most powerful rocks off?
What if instead, I’m actually helping poor people and saving innocent lives around the world, all at the same time? What if I’m nobly performing a vital public service!
I decide I deserve the Nobel Peace Prize and wonder what I’ll wear at the ceremony.
In between thrusts the President of the United States and Commander-in-Chief of the most powerful military the world has ever known, explains that the eagle’s head is turned away from the arrows towards the olive branches.
His lips touch mine. His answer is to reach up my skirt, pull down my panties, push me onto hands and knees in the middle of the Oval office.
I can’t.

her hand. Her handshake

by Bailey Allen

her hand. Her handshake
was firm and quick.
I opened my mouth but
Not one with six legs.think I will have to.

You will see for yourselves.
There was no difficulty talking
to the Paradisians;
if anything i

Intoxicating enchantment

So, when morn was come, they would know how he did: and he told them, “Worse and worse.”
“Oh, my dear wife,” said he, “and you, the bairns of my heart, I am quite lost, for a load lies hard on me.”
God, this would never do! She would only get herself worked up into a helpless state of excitement, and there was no darling George to satisfy the almost spontaneous heat building in her love-starved young body!
She climbed from the tub, refusing to even let herself think until she was certain the tormentful interlude had passed or sucked eagerly into her wanting mouth.
Hence he went to his room to pray for them, and to ease his grief.
In this plight, then, he went home, and kept calm as long as he could, that his wife and bairns should not see his grief; but he could not long hold his speech, for that his woe grew more hard to bear.
And she to him.
His magnificent, licking tongue!
Then, the soothing warm water blended with her preference of scented bath toiletry, slowly made her forget everything for a few luxurious minutes. Oh God, yes, that was it, intoxicating enchantment. At this his kin were in sore fear; for that they had just cause to
dread some dire ill had got hold of his head. His skilled tongue licking feverishly between her legs.

As she went through the wilds of this world, she came to a place where was a den, and she laid down in that place to sleep; and as she slept she dreamt a dream; and lo, she saw a man clad in rags, with a book in his hand, and a great load on his back!
She saw him read in the book, and as he read, he wept and shook. His long thick length of swollen male hardness rushing wildly up into her soft, craving belly.
But it hadn’t. Nor could she keep erotic reveries from worming into her conscious mind! She could see her dead lover’s virile nakedness as clearly as if he were standing before her.
Memories of her wonderful Major rushed to mind, but she drove them back, yet not before a series of rippling delights tingled through her sensitive loins and quickly aroused belly.
She caressed the fluffy suds over her full, voluptuously rounded breasts, feeling their tiny pink nipples budding firmly to her own touch, her denied young body stirring sensuously as if provoked by the gentle hand of her lover.
He spoke to them once more, but they gave no heed to his words.
Lord, what a ridiculous thought, the naked blonde beauty reasoned, climbing into the tub.
“More than this, I am told that this our town will be burnt with fire from the skies, and you, my sweet babes, shall come to grief, save some way can be found to get clear of harm.”
He would, too, take long walks in the fields, and read and pray at times: and thus for some days he spent his time. Remembering how he had made love to her.