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Posts: 21023
09/12/2013 1:30 PM
Out of nowhere the handsomest guy since Hal Linden sticks his hands in my armpits and wiggles his fingers (thank goodness I used deodorant!) then wasting no time, he moves on to my melons, which he squeezes hard in his big enormous man hands like he needs to find a ripe pair for a fruit salad he’s making. I press into his hands and lose my balance tipping over to the floor banging my knee on the coffee table. Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!!! I screamed in ecstasy. My inner child asked to use the potty from behind a couch. Mr. Morton Mauve was sticking his tumescent dingus in my flower of womanhood as I tried to get up from the luxurious fancy-ass wall-to-wall carpeting. It’s right in there! JEEZ! I had 80 more orgasms before my inner thighs grumbled about being too happy. My collective unconscious hit me on the nose with a magazine and broke wind. “What are you doing to me, Miss Shingle?” Morton growled through his teeth as he strained his nightstick of ultimate pleasure into me. “Brace yourself against the coffee table, but don’t smudge the glass, the cleaning woman doesn’t come til Tuesday. Do you understand?” Cripes! Did I understand?! No. I didn’t but I couldn’t let HIM know that. “What?” I said trying to cover. “Oh Miss Salad, you charm me,” he breathed as he pressed his hip flexors into my rear and we both totally had huge, enormous orgasms all over the plush sandstone-colored floor covering that only a man with plenty of scratch could afford. My inner ear put on a hat and asked me if it looked good.
Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!!! I screamed in ecstasy. My inner child asked to use the potty from behind a couch.
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