I want you to enjoy this, but I don't want you to back out. You let yourself settle back onto my hand. I can feel your heat and you're soaking my hand... You fucking love this. That only encourages me to go further. "Work yourself against my hand," I command. It's no suggestion this time. You give me a nervous smile as you begin to subtly rock your hips and grind yourself against my knuckles. Your mouth opens slightly and your breath grows more rapid. "Keep going," I whisper. I don't need to be. ” I wished.“The next thing I knew I was back on the battlefield in a tangle of dead bodies, dead horses. Everybody slashing, and stabbing, and generally butchering anything that walked, talked, or even slithered on the battlefield around us. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs ... no ... no ... not there ... not there ... God ... not there ... Over and over. Needless to say, I was soon back to the, what I was now calling “the Map Room” because I had more holes in my uniform and had died. When I was able to regain my composure, I turned around to the table behind me and wrote my phone number down and handed it to her and said " call me, I like bacon and eggs". She put my number in her pocket and walked away and the guy working next to me told me that she was probably serious and not to be surprised if I didn't get a call. I said yeah right and laughed it off. It was a sunday night and I was at home on the couch drinking beer and watching wrestling when my phone rang. The. I can still remember some of them even today — the parted thighs and the soft curving flesh above the stocking top leading right down ( or up!) into the gorgeous gusset and the unseen hairy mystery inside … how I would love to kneel in front of her and touch those silk-clad knees and gently open them, parting her legs, opening them, spreading them wide — and stick my head up her skirt and just BREATHE. That would be enough! Just to smell it, breathing it down deep into my lungs, my BALLS… The.
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