Fucked In Balenciaga

You could see that she was aware of so many things, breathing in deeply, rolling her eyes back and groaning. I could certainly sense everything about her body as it went to that high lubrication peak too. It wasn't anything unpleasant or dubious, just ordinary cunt, ordinary body warmth, I suppose - to some extent. It was the way she was into it all that made me cum, and I came hard and long with my shaft doing a set of swelling-to-a-hurting-crescendo, involuntary flexing spasms inside her, and then long long spurts of cream zipping into her vulva and no doubt, or so it felt anyway, spraying to right up against her cervix.

And there wasn't any sadness anymore. The snowflakes flew obliviously on outside the window, through the evening air, some of them spinning in opposite rotating motion, in little boomerang-like spirals, dancing around and down. Above & Beyond played 'Small Moments' on the big speaker system – the Exist Strategy Remix version. The mysterious Cristobal Balenciaga from out of the ether was having another lady fucked in his designs again this evening. At least, I'm sure that once she had dressed and was ready to go out for Russian tea in London somewhere this evening – maybe with strawberries and cognac and cream on the side, or huntsman toasted sandwiches, I would be able to pull her panties to one side again and put it in once more just for a little sensation of that wonderful smell and feel again. It was the Samsara, the eternal return. Which reminded me... Sara was coming back at the end of the week.