I am pulling you into my face. My fingers are gyrating in a "come to me" motion against your g-spot. Once your juices are flowing and your body is responding with want, I slide inside you. My cock is hard as a rocket and have rubber bands at the base. You can see every pulse of my heart throb through my member. It is starting to turn a shade of red, but it has a long way to go before blood flow will be released into it. I alternate between fucking and eating you out until your body is trembling from the onslaught of orgasms. In your state of bliss, you order me to turn around and assume the position. I eagerly do as I'm told without question or hesitation. You take the rubber band and pull it back making it even tighter. I know from experience you are not going to cut it without testing my fortitude. You release it and it snaps against the base of my cock with a snap. My body jumps a little and I take in the sting. You order me to back up closer and you pull out an fresh rubber band.. I often wonder if he writes about fucking me. Or if it's Bill. Or if it's all those other people they were fucking in London.One of Sam's poems goes:Take, O take that cunt awayThat so sweetly were forsworn;And that arse, that open door, Tunnel that do desire for more.Another goes:O lover mine, who are you fucking?O, stay and feel; your boyfriend coming, That can sing both high and low.I don't know what they mean, but they sound good. And they've got four letter words in them, so they must be art. Bill's however go like this:On the Twinkly Crunkly ClinkyI fucked a sumply dinkyAnd farted like a cunt-faced whore.It doesn't quite have the poise, restraint or beauty of Bill's best poems.Saturday, September 2I put some clothes on today. But because I'm a liberated chick that doesn't give a fuck, I just put on a shirt, one of Bill's, which is far too big really, and nothing else. That way, I've got my pussy showing. No one could call me conventional. And Sam did the same thing, only with.
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