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Her hands-on my head, holding me against her pulsing sex, this new feeling confirmed I was home where I belonged. A home of love, passion, and an awar...ness of each other's needs.I loved the taste of her release. I still licked, not so aggressively but such tender loving licks. That moment, I knew what real fulfilling love was. Love is not sex, sex is not love. Love is desiring to please and pleasure each other without hesitation. To be instrumental in each other's fulfillment.We showered. He looked at a bustling village some hundred yards away, at the old oak trees lining the ridged mountain that slashed downward like a blade to red-tiled roofs and white-washed walls, and at the row of gleaming white yachts lined up along the quay, then he looked down at the crumbled yellow paper he clutched grimly in his other hand. A telegram. Like a blinding clash of cymbals or the nervous rolling of deep thunder, the words on the paper picked at his mind and wrinkled his brow. A tired old. In my dreams, he always drills me.Unwittingly, lost in my fantasy, I began rubbing my pussy through the thin cotton fabric of my dress. I spread my legs a little more and inched my hem a little higher. I wasn’t wearing any undergarments and soon my index finger found my moistening slit. I began rubbing my clit with one hand and caressing my boob and twisting my nipple with my other hand. My hand disappeared into my top. I twisted in my chair as my fingers sank into my slippery pussy hole; my. Well she rushed past them and leapt into her car and sped off. The reporters, seeing her obvious mental anguish, set off after her looking for the story. All this I saw on a TV that was visible from the holding cells. I saw them pursuing her like a pack of rabid dogs. I saw her lose control of the car and slam into a pillar of a bridge. I saw the car burst into a fireball. And I saw my son face in the window of the car before he was engulfed in flames. A sight that is burnt into my brain. There.
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