She lifted her legs even more

She lifted her legs even more

He had never thought that they offered themselves to the people living in the buildings opposite. He was shy and thought only of the body he was piercing gently and fiercely. A strange sense of responsibility to have that frail body under him. He was a man. He touched the bottom of her. She was holding her neck, she asked him if he felt that he was deep inside her.

She lifted her legs even more, until she felt a slight pain. She wanted him to realize that he was deep inside, that he was telling her as others had said before him. He just felt like being inside her. Nothing more seemed to be able to add to the excitement of the moment. Everything then happened very quickly, too fast.

She, she knew the curtains should have been pulled but did not say anything, she had introduced it into her by staring straight into her eyes. Sometimes his eyes were lost on the windows that seemed to watch over their silhouettes in broad daylight. To show their flesh, their spasms and their enjoyment was putting it out of itself. She blossomed from this probable exhibitionist outbidding.

Maybe that’s why she ended up crouching down in front of him, pushed it into her mouth without hesitation and waited, hands on her buttocks, sperm pouring down her throat, twitches of her sex digging the desire she had to be offered and burned her lips so much that if a stranger at that moment had introduced herself into her, she would have let him do it and would simply print the movement of his hips on his tail made slippery by the humidity of her.

He had withdrawn from his mouth. She had smiled proud to be full of him. She would have liked him to touch her sex, he touches her, she, in love and slimy. He took it on his chest and they started talking. She had known happiness hanging gently on her smooth young man’s skin. She had not breathed a word of the excitement she had had. She was ashamed of the Pandora’s box that seemed to open in her as soon as she opened her thighs, still burning with the memory of her first love a few months ago.

She has the memory of having confided in confidence to a crazy dog. The neck, the arms, the back are covered with marks. Some retire before the day like a low tide, others remain terrible and proud, red like scratches or painful marks with changing colors like blues that remember with each gesture.

In the morning, when carrying the cup of coffee to his lips, facing his parents. She quickly drank the hot coffee that would almost burn the tongue but she wants it in his mouth with the same ardor, she claimed it a few hours earlier, on the spot, without waiting, without being afraid to push it deeply until her body tells her no, that her throat throws him back while she still wants to, feel her tail scrape her throat up to provoke this animal, physical reaction – she would like that almost orgasmic moment of pleasure that matches rejection of her throat extends for seconds, again, again.

She would like to have it everywhere, wherever it is more taboo than her pussy. She does not say anything, she sucks. She had promised to beg him, to insult him, to pray to be stuffed for him. But she is silent, sprawled in the happiness of sucking him.

She never wanted to be loved, she did not want to make him happy. This blissful patience allowed her to wait for the sperm to fall on her cheeks, her lips with the sweetness of a simply heavier rain. She would have called more of her wishes, That this appeasement lasts longer than her ejaculation.

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