Hot pussy on pussy action

And surprise! both of these pussies are boys. OK, 'mouse, it's your turn.

Russian Infusions: Part Three of the Competition for the Big O Show
(Since I will be in Italy for ten days I thought I would leave you with this final entry in the Sexual Triathelon. This segment, of course, is pure fantasy.)
Legs crossed under desk. Focus on the text."In most cases the doctors agree and the children are put on Ritalin." Put a comma after "cases" introductory phrase. Another comma missed before and. Don't put that comma in, but circle the space where the comma should be.

Tongue circling the areola. Was it biting or merely sucking which produced that rush of pleasure?

Focus on the text.

"As a result the children return to school with the same symptoms." Another intructory phrase without a comma. Circle in red. Uncross legs. Shouldn't have shaved them this morning. Look around at the class, heads bent, pretending to read the text.

The feel of his hand on the back of my head. Holding me to him that grey Sunday, Easter. Stronger than I imagined. The light touch of his hand on my back for the first time.

Cross legs and focus.

Finish reading paper. It's easier during the discussion. The students make blunders. The silence, the enraging silence, can be filled with questions, jokes, taunts, all which distract from the feeling of bare legs, but when out on the sidewalk again, the cool breeze will swirl under the full pink skirt, my paris skirt, a light fabrics which luffs and swirls when I walk. A skirt which could simply and easily be pushed up by the wind as by a human hand that does not have the time for zippers.

"Get undressed."

The nature of the fantasy is fractured as the memory of him has become. I can remember unbuttoning his shirt, the way he intones the word "pussy", the ghost of his kiss on my cheek, neck, breasts, but I can not put all of these images together. In my fantasies, he is morely likely faceless, although I can recall his features seperately. Particularly his hands.

and his cock.

Waiting at home for me, how did he get in? There is no necessity for plot devices, he is just there, pushing me up against my wall. Taking my shirt off. Or not bothering, just pushing up the skirt.

Sit on the couch with the exams in my lap.

Feeling him underneath. Peeling off my top and then his to feel his skin against mine. The revelation of his flesh in my hand for the first time. He is so soft. In such a pleasing way, the way a child discovers velour.

Him lying on his side, like Bacchus, inviting me into those red sheets, inviting me into my own bed. Both of us naked. One hand held by the wrist above my head and me pleading with him to speak to me, in any language, not mattering if I understand it or not, not mattering how dirty it is.

How do say blow job, ass, pussy, cock, cum, whore, moan, faster, harder in Russian?

Sitting on the couch fully dressed, he has one hand behind my back, which forces my back to arch, as he kisses me gently across my cheek, on my lips, not deeply, just a taste, almost a whisper between us.

The exams having fallen onto the floor, under the couch, the flush across my cheeks and breasts, a bright redness, the pleasure of only imagining fading. When did they fall?

Pick up exams. Comma missing before and. Circle in red pen. Cross legs. Do not be distracted this time. Remember not to shave legs tomorrow.

Russian Infusions Part Two of the Big O Show's Competition:Actual Experience

My father used to say that if you aim low, you will never be disappointed. I have come, in recent times, to think of him as an optimist. Of course, as many of you might have guessed, my hostility is often caused by idealism, and so I have to actively advise myself NOT to have great expectations, to be reasonable. When it comes to sex, my expectations after Paris are generally grand. I mean anything less than an almost slavish devotion to my pleasure is hardly worth my contemplation, not to mention to effort of shaving my legs and rummaging through my underwear drawer for my extra lacey panties. At the very least, I should get out of bed less frustrated then when I got into it.

Occassionally my father, however, is wrong.

I hadn't seen him in a month. My visual memory is poor and so I found I remembered him compartmentalized-his hands, his eyes, his voice, but I couldn't quite put the whole picture together. When I saw him it was a mix of recognition and reconciliation, seeing where I had altered him, blonder than I remember, with freckles (freckles?), the mouth fuller, pinker. The voice as I remembered and the gesture of smoothing his blonde goatee also in place.

It was that first moment I wondered about. Would he walk in and kiss me? Hug me? Would I have time to adjust? Would he throw me on the floor in animal lust? Would he be disappointed when confronted with what I actually look like versus what he has been dreaming about for a month?Would he make hasty excuses and back away? I had, in my nervousness, put my sweater on backwards. My black panties, I would discover quite soon, were inside out.

I had been feeling awful about my body the weight I hadn't lost (insert usual female body issues here), and to hear him talk about missing my mouth, the perfection of my breasts, the softness of my skin, the pleasure of my body, that in of itself would have been enough, if I hadn't cum at all, the desire for my body do strong that my clothes are peeled off on the couch, never making it to the bed, it would have been enough to have someone really see me as that beautiful, that desirable but then the sex...

It's been a long time since I've been comfortable enough in bed with someone to talk with them during, to feel the slow pulse of him while looking him in the eye and he gently whispers- to have him push you towards more pleasure. "Can you cum one or two more times for me?" Can I?Can I? "How many times?" I ask him. It becomes a test of ednurance, how much pleasure can I tolerate? Like a Roman Emperor so filled with wine and roasted peacocks that I must finally tell the Imperial kitchen to knock it off, I've reached the limit, please, please stop. Finally allowing himself a roaring orgasm (have I ever made a man cum that hard before?) with both of us trying to find the energy afterwards to pull ourselves onto the bed. In the middle of night, I am awakened again by exploring hands and have to fumble around in the dark to find the condoms. The performance repeated again, the long marathon towards our pleasure leaving my legs sore. Roman, my latin dance teacher, will ask me the next day "What's wrong with you? You are hardly moving, lazy girl."

The next day we wake up and haul our asses, hand in hand, to the park. We sit in the sun under the cherry blossoms while he plays guitar. He really is quite good. I try to make him smile, with stories and comments, but he tells me that "Russians don't often smile." He lays down next to me in the sun, his arm thrown over my back (and I don't care what he says , the hair on his arms is blonde, which means he is a blonde, can I get an amen on that one?). He reaches to get an itch, and I get it for him and then run my nails up and down his arms. I can see, even in his drowsing, that he is smiling.

I smell the grass, listen to the birds and the bikers, the small dogs and the children, and I feel the weight of his arm and I think "This will all end soon. What should I do?"

I put my head down on my arms feeling the sated fatigue of my body and think, "Just enjoy it. Just enjoy it."

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