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Lovely Ms Erryn

By: Liplovinman



I had not known her name, at least not as she stood before me, working her way through her own internal dialogue with a stranger poised before her. I wondered as I spoke what she must be thinking behind her bright eyes.

"James Wilson," I offered my hand, " I'm in charge of the museum here."

She did not take it at first, there were still lists of questions behind those intelligent eyes, most of which revolved around why she had been singled out by me, with so many around the museum.

"Nice to meet you James?" It was not a wary response, she was too kind to offer even the most minor of insults without having more information. It was quizzical, a request for more, an opening to begin.

"Ah yes, what exactly does the director of the museum want? Did you inadvertently pocket a pack of gum in the gift shop? No. " I winked at her as she smiled. " I saw you taking an interest in the bronze, one of my favorites. If my observations are correct, this may be your 4th trip back to see it in as many days."

I saw the sparkle in her eyes and wondered exactly where this was going. Would she think me observant or a stalker? What was her interest in the figure? All a variety of avenues to be explored if she allowed.

She smiled her response as again her attention was drawn to the Dancer by Rodin. "It's quite beautiful, isn't it? I don't really know what draws me back to it, I just know I love it and honestly, photos do it no justice."

She referred to the images captured in the gift shop, souvenirs for those unable to return to see the real item in person. She was correct, there was no earthly way to recapture the beauty of the figure other than witnessing it in person. It's lines and grace were unimaginably poetic, it moved with a subtle stillness.

"There is a lot to appreciate in this piece, Rodin was particularly adept at capturing movement, if you move clockwise with the piece, you can almost see her dance." I offered an arm and walked her slowly around the sculpture as she took in the effects of their movement.

"Mr Wilson," there was a brief second, her face paled, and then the laughter began to build. "I'm so sorry. Dennis the Menace just bounced through my mind, you must get that all the time." She must have thought better of the comment, as I bore no likeness to the old man in the comics, besides the name. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that you look like..." She was off again, this time somewhat subdued, but so refreshingly giddy.

I have in fact been exposed to it more and more as I have aged. The likelihood that those with less years would continue to address me as Mr. Wilson was only enhanced by the distance placed between the popularity of the old cartoon and the exposure of those of a younger age. Still I delighted to hear her laughter. It brought no memories back, it was a free and easy laugh, something that I not only appreciated but was compelled to join.

"Think nothing of it, but if you cause any destruction here, I may be forced to call you Denise! Unless there is something else I can call you! And Please – Call me James." There was that comfortable period as laughter dies, it seems to be a defining moment in friendships.

"Erryn, please call me Erryn." She did not search for a tissue to dab at her eyes, did not worry incessantly about her makeup, as she seemed to be wearing a minimum. She was as elegant as she was unpretentious. 

I had seen her on her many visits, and oddly enough, it was not her fiery mane that attracted me to her, not even her interest in the statue, though that added to the draw, no, it had been her exquisitely sculptured legs. She had sat with a group of 10 or more when the exhibit was first opened, and as ceremonies go, I had taken his place to the left of the curator, introducing him and giving him the opportunity to discuss the newest items before allowing entry. She had been on the right side of the seated guests, her foot moving in slow circles as she waited; not impatient, more of a rhythmic anticipation. Her skirt allowed a view of her delicate calves as first one rotated above the other, only to be exchanged mid ceremony as she rotated the right. I was captured by the anatomy of her, drawn to it as I might have been a work of art. Little did I know there was much more to worship than the turn of her ankle.

The remainder of their time that day was spent wandering the museum, the grounds and coffee in the garden, a much more private area, but still ultimately visible by the patrons, and certainly not secluded, but the garden was not the draw of the Broad Museum, it was the interior. For me, the draw sat across from me as we sipped and discussed our lives. 

I have been with the Broad since it opened in 2011, she had been attending UCLA for the same timeframe, studying architecture. I was a man of 43 years now, she had just turned 23, I apologized for missing her birthday, though 2 weeks was somewhat more belated than an apology should be allowed to cover. We talked for the better part of the day, though I could tell from her more frequent checks of the time that she had obligations she was ignoring.

It was nearly 5 pm when we parted that day, she had a paper due and I had my own litany of unfinished business. It was an amicable parting, and I wished her well with her paper as she strode out of the building. I was back to enjoying the turn of her ankle, as she moved effortlessly down the marble entry. Her skirt played with my eyes as did her hips, what a dance of fabric. I did not allow myself to think about what such a body might look like, though any variety of nude figures, paintings and drawing were nearby. She left as she had entered, capturing me with her movement.





He was so imaginative in his youth, he believed calling her Scarlet was inventive and unique, and it stayed his name for her long after he learned her real name. It might have seemed a pet name, but he had written subpar poetry to her under that moniker, at least a dozen lame and never to be heard songs and even a sonnet of sorts, unfinished though it might remain.

Scarlet was a friend of his older sister, that provided him ample opportunity to fawn over her, ask her questions that she might be apt to ignore from a stranger. And she was affable enough to attempt not to disillusion him, though he took it as a sign that there might be more than just a conversation between them.

"Would you ever go out with me?" He asked, almost childlike, the circles of his eyes wide with expectation.

"If you were older, I just might." She would laugh that cheerful laugh, embarrassed as she might be by his attention, my attention. You see, I was that young man, and she, she was that one true thing in my youth.

Scarlet was just shy of my height, and though I have grown a fraction since that time, she would have been about six inches shorter than my 6 feet in height. She was thin, though not gaunt. Scarlet was after all perfection to me. She was modest, never revealing anything more than a young catholic might, at least not the good catholic girls. That is a debate that will live on in my mind, having met some exceptionally "good" catholic girls later in my life.

Her hair was not to be ignored, always dressed in long curls around her face, the rest flowing long down her back. She made a statement the moment she entered the room. Scarlet was not brash, she was the epitome of a girl next door, a very sweet, languid girl next door. I often found myself in later life trying to equate her to someone everyone knew, perhaps a red headed Jessica Lange. But even that comparison dulled in reality.

One of the most endearing qualities about her was the manner in which she blushed, and I learned to seek out ways to make her blush. Her cheeks would turn pink, and if the matter held more weight, you could see the flush spread across her chest, connecting her light freckling in a mass of red. Her freckles were not invisible, but as she blushed or took on sun, they surfaced like poppies in the spring.

Those were the memories of a longing that was not to be, a fondness that was one sided and faded into the slides of a photographic memory scrapbook. Only to be pulled out when a scent or sight, a sound or some other reminder dragged the dusty book back to the surface. 

It was long after Scarlet that I met her, and she, like Scarlet was a vision. I had never felt the draw as I had with Scarlet in the past, and honestly, red hair became a sort of deterrent, a unhappy reminder. This was not the case with Erryn. Here he found a match in many things, not the least of which was a willingness to be charmed by him, though he had past 20 years since Scarlet had been the vision of perfection.

Erryn was thoughtful, friendly, outspoken with a touch of reservation. She knew her mind, her body, her wants and desires and felt empowered to speak her mind on things that mattered to her. Such a welcome change from his former imagination, as he had nothing but his imagination with which to compare.

Erryn had red locks, a lithe frame and a figure that made him quiver at times, thinking about the way she moved, she was real, exceptional, and in front of him, waiting for him to speak.





It was a night like any other for us as friends, enjoying a laugh, chuckling about the father and daughter comments, or the outright smirks of those potentially offended by our blatant retorts of not being related. Was it a game we played with each other or a game we played for others? There were the exchanges of giving the stares something to talk about. But we managed to keep it above board, nothing too salacious was ever to be seen. There was an occasional platonic kiss, or hand holding for show, but really, it seemed to be a way to silence others, or incite them.

After a particularly poignant episode with a new host at a local eatery we had come to call our place, one who seemed intent on hitting on Erryn, there was an exchange which included the young man acquiescing to her demands that he stop bothering her, citing that her father was probably to blame. I took the opportunity to pull her from the flaming debate and kissed her squarely on the lips – my eyes locked on his. Erryn provided the punctuation mark, "You're right, if my father were here, he would not approve of you!"

There was a giggling quiet to the start of the evening, but I spotted that glow in her eyes yet again, and it burned throughout our time that night. She touched her lips once, as if in memory, and when she saw me catch her, she mouthed the word 'wow'. I think that was my undoing.

My hand found its way to her thigh often as the evening wore on, she covered it from time to time with her own. The laughter was more subdued, the time still just as enjoyable, as though the laughter had covered some sense of nervousness we experienced. I had never noticed it, not until it disappeared. We made our way to the car, her hand in mine, strolling at a slow pace. It took me back to wandering around the Rodin at the museum, that same sense of motion, elongating our time.

There was a fever to our kiss as I thanked her for the evening, before driving her home. My hand found the back of her neck, playing tenderly with the silky strands of her hair, her arms snaked under my jacket and felt as though they were on the skin of my back as she responded. There was exploration in that kiss, of limits, boundaries, intentions and the limitlessness of it astounded me. We were open and sharing of ourselves as we caressed, and at once our bodies moved tight.

I had never thought to hide my arousal, it would have been pointless in that instant. I gave into it, to her and the sensations that threatened to have the thoughts of public fornication themselves banned. There was hunger in our kiss, as our mouths experienced the tastes and intrigue of once another, there was an urgency of our bodies that we tamed, though I could not do so as quickly as I might have liked.

Then there was the embrace that followed and for the second time the word, "wow" was uttered, this time by me. 

The drive to her place took less than 10 minutes, but Erryn seemed down as I walked her to her door. She had roommates of course, more than likely several were at home. Lights blazed in the building she occupied, though I had no idea where geographically she lived in the complex.

"How about a drive?" I took her hand and the smile returned instantly. She might have raced me to the car if we had been in a hurry, we certainly were not.

Her hand found my thigh as we began our drive. I was powerless to stop her magic, and like pulling a rabbit from a hat, I began to grow in response. Erryn knew what she was doing to me, she was not only doing it on purpose, but sending me a very non-verbal message. My drive became directed to my place.

I had a loft in the heart of the old industrial district. It was not remote, but also not a quick drive. We wound through the streets of LA, making our way through narrow streets and weather worn buildings. By the time I reached my place, I had been hard for some time. Her gentle grasp and stroking of my thigh had me well prepared.

The stairway to the loft gave me time to relax, I never asked her, she might have refused – I think not, but I did not give her the opportunity. I wondered about that from time to time. It was never a topic we discussed after. I found a bottle of red and opened the windows to the noise of the outside streets. There was a white noise effect about them, and they were far enough away from where we were seated that they did not provide a barrier. It was in fact like dining outside, something we had done often.

She perused the shelves, something you might expect when in the home of a museum director, looked at the photos, most of them my own and settled down next to me.

In this space, a tour was rather passé, I had little in the way of enclosures, except the natural barriers of the walls, the space reminded me of the museum in that way. The exception was the restroom, which was attached to the private living space at the rear.

"The restroom," I directed her in the most official of ways, "My room," I indicated my doorway, "and the living space." The remainder of the loft included in the grand gesture.

We found ourselves quieting as the evening wore on, a glass of red wine each out of the bottle, another poured in the glasses that sat before us, but we seemed less intent on them than on each other. At some point we began to entangle the fingers of our hands, she examining mine, in the greatest of detail, me enjoying the touch and feel of her soft skin as she wrapped in and through the finger of my hand.

In a light hearted moment, as she was looking at my hand, I managed, "It's absolutely true what you have heard about the size of man's hand."

She looked shocked, playing along. "Why, what do they say?"

"Well, it is directly related to the size of a man's - well you know – his feet!" I propped one up on the coffee table, our shoes long gone.

She took my fingers in hers and looked back and forth between one and the other. "I always thought it was related to the size of a man's penis." She passed it off beautifully, and we were both in stitches immediately. The laughter transformed to her against my chest, wound under my arm, our fingers still entwined, and a light kiss that began their first lovemaking together.

I had taken the buttons of her blouse down during a story about how I had gotten the loft and the crazy woman who wanted to decorate it in an African theme, large animals or animal prints here and everywhere. She had removed my shirt while telling me of the fight she had with her older brother about where babies came from at the age of 7. That had ended tragically she said when Santa had also been exposed.

My hands began to move over the sweet pale skin of her back as I searched for the clasps that enclosed her bra, playfully slapping her hands away as she tried to assist. Claiming that if I could not do this on my own, in the dark, upside down in a pool of water, I would have my man card revoked. When i succeeded, I had to draw in my breath and the time for small talk seemed destined for the refuse pile. She was achingly beautiful, her creamy skin, the perfect pout of her nipples as she felt the mixture of arousal and the cool air of the room. I cupped one precious breast in my hands and kissed her mouth, sweet as it was, it urged me on. 

Bending to those pink nubs of flesh, enticing me to pay them attention, I did just that, kissing the errant freckle, before sucking on first one engorged nipple, then the other. I scaled them lightly with my teeth, not wanting to bite them yet, gauging her tenderness. The warmth of my mouth did not reduce them, it was as apparent as the hard on in my pants, that she was aroused. 

Her hands reached for my belt and I pulled her close enough to pick her up and walk her to my bed. She seemed intent on removing it, perhaps it was her woman card at stake, and I allowed her the opportunity as we stood by the foot of the bed. Kissing my way down her body, I removed her skirt and had my first captivating scent of her sex. It was then that control became an issue as I pulled her panties to the side, lovely pink and black satin, and kissed her shaven pussy fully. The taste was beyond my dreams, as I had dreamed it, so many times.

I took a moment to slip her panties down her thighs and admired those legs yet again. I could feel her hand in my hair, but it paled in comparison to my exploration of her.

I lay her down on the bed and asked the only question I would ask that night. Not permission, just a request, one with which I hoped she would be compelled to comply.

I took hold of her lovely legs and requested, "Would you wrap these around my head?" I heard only a moan in response, the first and most inviting I had heard from her. I bent to her thighs and began to worship her body. Her pussy was warm, wet from my kiss, and from the excitement that had been building throughout the evening. I imagined her needing to masturbate if we had not consummated our relationship. She was not cleanly shaven, a tuft of red lay directly above her wetness, a lovely affirmation of her status as a red head, but that did not matter, her scent filled the room and soon my tongue filled her. Wrapping my hands around her hips I pulled her close, bathing her lips with my tongue, slipping it past them in slow and short strokes, avoiding her clit for as long as I could, the taste of her pulling me deeper. When I found her pearl of flesh, it was standing at attention, ready for me.  My fingers stroking her deep while I sucked and pulled at her clit. Her pussy groped at my fingers, wanting them deeper, wanting them faster, her breathing telling me she was close. Her legs clamped against my head, covering my ears. I sucked hard on her lovely pink slit as she gave way to her first orgasm, my mouth was covered in her cum as I surfaced and I thought I heard "wow" again, but I was never sure who had said it. 

I was intrigued by the plain white envelope on my desk, it bore only a single letter on the exterior a 'J' in script. Erryn's handwriting was no mystery, but the contents intrigued me, rather than the presence of the note enclosed. There was also the manner in which it would have arrived, the chirping of both the younger set as well at those closer to my age. Erryn had been to the museum often enough before they had begun seeing each other as more than companions, that alone had caused a stir. Now, it was quite evident that there was more between us than some wanted to know or acknowledge within my work realm.

There was a photo, a sticky note carefully placed on the reverse. The photo was printed on standard paper, the warps of excess ink evident. It was the interior cover of a first edition of Moby Dick. On the reverse, in her sweet way, Erryn had penned:


Lovely Ms Erryn



Get your ass over and BUY IT! 

~E~

It was one of many discussions we had the opportunity to dive into in the afterglow of our marathon session that first night. My love of the book, its draw, the colorfulness of each and every character contained within the binding – all had spilled out as the questions were batted back and forth. Favorite movie, best place for sushi, dream job – that had led to discussing the book. I read a few passages to her that night, nothing exceptional, just a taste of the eloquence, the combination of brutality in a flourish of prose. She now had found a first edition somewhere; that alone brought her closer to me.

She was on the phone within the first ring.

"Hmm, you dialed pretty quick for a man of your limited phone skills." She giggled, having given me lessons on her iphone. I preferred to push a button, she thought I was archaic in the notion.

"You had me at Moby DICK." I had not quite whispered it, but she would have had to strain to catch the emphasis. She had commented that first night that the reason I enjoyed the story was because I could walk around with a book that was about a 'big ole dick!' I told her she had whale envy.

"OK, so where is this gem, I may need to put it on layaway so I can afford to pay for it before I am 80." There were many self-deprecating jokes at my own expense around age, she never once bit on them, not to tell me that I was not old, not to tell me I was still young. It was comforting that it just did not matter.

She gave me the address and stated she was scoping out the joint from a nearby coffee shop. "Anyone with a peg leg or peacoat will be stopped, searched and questioned. Now, get your ass over here, dammit! I don't have much time left on the meter."

I made my way out, leaving a message with reception that I would return before 10 am, the color printed copy of the book lay on my desk, the post it that had been attached was deep in my jacket pocket. It had only been two weeks, but every contact between us brought memories of that banner evening. Including the painful getaway....

No one needs to remind me of my age, I felt every bone, muscle and ache after waking. I also saw a bruise or two on my pale companion as we collected ourselves after resting. My thighs burned as I took my first step and while the shower helped, as did the coffee, nothing could have prepared me for the stairs down to the car. I did not notice if Erryn had suffered in the same manner, she seemed less affected than I. It took the set of stairs to stretch the tightness out, but a run was out of the question that morning. It is something I have yet to discuss, perhaps when I am 80, it will an appropriate topic.

I pulled into the alleyway behind the bookstore, Erryn was waiting with a kiss and a coffee as I walked down the steep embankment to the storefront. I had neither seen nor heard of this place in my 14 years in Los Angeles. It was not in a bad part of town, it was simply a neighborhood with little to offer in the way of attraction, a local Coffee Shoppe (taken directly from their sign), a used book exchange (probably frequented by the students searching for a cheaper text book option), coin op laundry, a few all in one types (liquor, sundries, food) and the rest apartments backed by high rises. It made me think about what other secrets the city still held.

"Did I get you out too early?" Erryn clung to my arm, careful of both our cups. I loved the way she melted onto me. It brightened my morning to have her here, but it made my heart race as well.

"Not at all, I think I had a minute or two to settle in, who needs more than a minute." I winked at her, kissed her nose. She looked lovely, she sparkled in the sunlight, though the day was brisk.

"I popped in yesterday to see if they had a copy of anything on my reading list for next term. It's not often they have what I need, most of it is first year texts and paperbacks for Lit classes. But they have a few first editions in a glass case. I never really noticed them before." She went on to tell me that Paul, the owner, had pulled out the copy and she had snapped a shot on her phone. 

They entered the tight little store, turning sideways to pass other customers, the store could not have been more than 300 square feet. In a standing glass case behind the cashier, I assumed owner as well, was the copy. The cover was badly worn, the binding a mess, all four corners showed the cardboard white of wear, bent in. But I marveled that the cover still held a very strong impression of the guilt ship, though the color was worn and faded. Before even asking to see it, Erryn asked Paul to remove it. I wanted to talk price first, but Paul was already aware that I was interested, it was for sale after all.

I left with the weighty tome under my arm, a spring in my step. The book was in even worse shape than I thought, but I felt it was the best investment I had ever made. Not just for me, but the light in Erryn's eyes, knowing she had been the one to find it, bring me to it and ultimately, persuade me that I could not live without it. She had been right on all counts! All the more reason for me to cherish this lady for the care she took in making me happy.

Class was calling her, and of course, I needed to return to the museum, the book would have prominence there, a home. I could not wait to find the proper spot to showcase it. Thoughts meandered to the ways I might thank the lovely Erryn, and an x-rated reel played slowly through my mind

I laid out the table after working for almost three hours on my project for Erryn, something fun, but not even I could think of giving her this package in public. I might have considered my office, the juxtaposition of the sedate museum and my gift, might well do us both in. As such, I'd set out a lovely fruit and cheese, wine and held desserts in the refrigerator for a later moment.

It had taken some time to make the particular mold I chosen, something chocolate and indulgent. But tempering the chocolate, I soon realized that I could not give Erryn something she could not eat. The thicker the chocolate, the less likely she would be able to even attempt to bite into it. I settled on a mix of both almond bark, which is much softer, and a modeling chocolate with the consistency of fondant. It was easy enough to pour in the mixture of chocolates to coat the mold, but the modeling chocolate was not as kind. It was painful, especially when I realized the mold could not be saved.

Her box sat off to the side, waiting for her arrival. I found some decent music, nothing either of us could sing along with (another story for another time), and settled in watching the latest rays of the sunset plummet out of view. It was dark now, but the lack of light in the room meant being able to see for miles across the city. It was not as hazy as it had been recently and stars twinkled in and out of view, all in all a lovely night for the two of us.

Erryn arrived in a top I had not seen before. It was cutaway just below above her ribcage forming something like top coat tails. It was light, and it moved with utter grace behind her. The soft fabric turning and bouncing opposite her steps looked as though someone had taken parenthesis and made an effort to assure me that I was looking at exactly the right place.

"What a lovely top, you wear it so very well." She turned, walked a few steps and did her fashion turn. Her choice for the night almost begged for my hands to slide around her exposed skin and fondle her for the remainder of the night.

"Just a little something I thought you might like." She popped a grape into her mouth, then another. "I take it you like it?"

"Mmmm, you look delicious Erryn. But I suppose you came over for something sweet..." 

I have never known Erryn to shy from a laugh, though I had seen her choke on items due to it. I expected the grape to fly out at me as well.

"I figured that you deserved a treat, after you found that special gift for me!" I went over to bring back the box to her, her own special treat.

She opened the box, folding back the first layer of tissue, then a layer of silk. Her expression was priceless as she tried desperately to figure out what was happening. She saw the pearls and began to touch them, her eyes still curious and lingering in my direction.

"A bracelet James?" She began to try to remove the item from the box, knowing there was more in the box than just the top item. She removed it, and the black lace attached to it and turned it in her hands. Her mind shifted as she realized what she was holding. It was a Bracli pearl string panty, something I had picked up in my foray to the adult shop. Erryn looked at it closely and thanked me for my thoughtfulness.

She then folded back the remaining tissue, a single sheet of involved instructions covered it. She turned it over, looking for a clue and as she did, she looked into the bottom of the box. Carefully wrapped was her treat. I had bubble wrapped it to keep it from melting to any part of the box or tissue. She began to unwrap it and began to giggle. She held in her hands a lifesize chocolate replica of my penis. 

I explained the painstaking process of the Clone a Cock world, allowing her some time to digest the instructions I'd left in the box. What do you get for the woman who finds your favorite Dick book? I thought it was a marvelous idea. I had other thoughts as she bit the head off my clone... all that and sharp teeth too, mercy!

We enjoyed the dessert, the wine and found our way in each other's arms. She was sitting on my original, fondling the remaining chocolate in her hands. I pressed my hands inside her flimsy top and began a journey of fingers across her warmth. Her belly might have been ticklish, except for the way I moved my hands. I gave her no room to giggle. She removed her top, citing a desire to keep the chocolate from staining, and I removed her bra under the same circumstances. Her breasts were at eye level and I began to find them in my mouth, tender, white and arousing sensations met us both in the process. Her nipples were hard in moments. I loved the feeling of exciting her, feeling her breath expand, taking in as much air and experience as she could drain from the room.

It was a pleasure to take her breasts to task, to tempt them as she did me with the sway of her hips, the lilt of her voice, the fragrance of her passion. My hand had found her wet almost at once, as she shrugged her way out of her skirt, her shoes followed and I was fawning over my panty clad cutie, fully dressed myself and enjoying it.

Erryn took the last bite of my faux member and kissed me. The mixture of chocolate and warm from her breath had me standing at full attention. Her hands found my cock and pulsed it with a grip and release. I was in heaven kissing her, wanting her and knowing I would have her. She unzipped me as we parted our kiss.

"I think we need to make a comparison, chocolate vs vanilla." Not needed a response, she dropped down to lick the head of my cock, unfortunately most of my precum had been left behind. She stroked it as she tasted it, first licking the shaft, a memory leaps out when she took the head between her teeth, much as she had the chocolate. There was the faintest bite before she began sucking my cock.

Erryn was wonderfully talented, she knew more about my pleasure that I did, and without question could coax cum from me even when I thought there was nothing to give. She pleasured my shaft in long slow strokes, taking me deep, her hand pushing my foreskin up and down. I had no reservations about letting her know how good this felt.

"My god baby, that is fucking hot! You are such a beautiful little cock sucker... mmmm." It only added to her vigor, though we both knew this was no way for the festivities to end.

I watched her skull fuck my cock, the length disappearing into her waiting hand and mouth. It was so much a turn on that I asked her to stop for a moment, wrapping my fingers tight around the base of my cock. I would force it down, no matter what.

Erryn had taken note of my actions, kissing my chest and moving up my body to sit in my lap again to kiss me. She positioned herself, the crotch of her panties stretched over the top of my hard on as we kissed ardently. I found that warm wet hole with my fingers and began to pinch her clit as her actions pushed her panties inside her. I waited for the right moment before pulling her lacy garment to the side, setting her down on my cock. We kissed, long, sloppy and youthfully as we stayed connected. She felt so right surrounding me. Her pussy welcomed me each and every entry, I so enjoyed her company.

We fucked in a lazy manner that night, neither wanting to cum quickly, enjoying the sweetness of each other's bodies and the stamina it took to hold back. We had been moving in tandem for some time when a jerk from her caused a pulse in me and without much warning we settled into a deep and orgiastic eruption that made me blush. I came whispering her name into her hair, the Uhn uhn uhn of her voice responding before she pulled me close to her and kissed my neck and arms, murmuring my name.

I felt the wetness dripping from my member, the mixture of both of us, as I pulled out. I was not hard, but certainly not flaccid either. I positioned my cock at her rear entry to find her ass pushing back toward me. Four then five tried lead to the head popping inside her. We did not move to expand that moment. But I felt much more of her breathing, her pulse from inside her lovely ass. I whispered this to her and was met with a push back and a long sigh as she took another inch. I could not say we consummated that act on that evening, but we did open the rear door. Something her outfit had made me crave since she arrived.