Double toying High Quality Sex Pics

Lust for his sister drives him to do the unthinkable.

Each stop has a favorite sensation it wants to feel; every stop is on its way to becoming a start. I am moving toward something, and not just the answer to her question and the response to her curiosity.

Your imagination can fill in the gaps between specific remembrances. There were no surprises; the movements and touches were no invention of mine, nor anything discovered on that day, except that they had the benefit of being new to us, together, and perhaps the element of surprise lifted them to a place of what seemed like creativity and artistry but was really becoming hunger and desire. At that point, I was no longer trying to answer anything. I was ... deep in the act of answering, which is something quite different.

Yes, your imagination. Let it go where it will between the mental checkpoints of my arms wrapped underneath and around her, holding her hips in such a way as to convey to her that, without too forced a grip, she was now being held and would find just the right resistance to any necessary faux struggle, that playful attempt to flee on the way to surrender. Let your imagination take you where it will between that and my hands underneath her, holding her bottom firmly, and then more firm when her breathing told me that would be just fine, thank you. And when my breathing told her most tender folds of my nearness to kissing those glistening lips, pink and flush and swollen and unfolding, and when that kiss, the first of many, did happen, and then I used my tongue (because to answer her I didn't need it to talk; I had a better way to respond). And when fingers and tongue and mouth were each doing their thing and yet working in concert for her pleasure, but only after creating the tension necessary before the release.

And when I teased the very bottom of her belly with my hand, and when I took deep breaths that betrayed my hunger, and when my tongue made hints near the one spot I'd been avoiding, waiting for the right time, for the invitation, and when my tongue flicked nearby, and then closer, uncovering, playfully lifting the hood, teasing more, coming back, and then making a game of it. And when that game became me, with my tongue, supporting this tiny little part of her, like balancing a slippery ball atop something meant to keep it aloft, and that the game would be over and I would lose if the ball slipped and fell, and when it threatened to do just that, and how I had to keep moving my tongue to keep it underneath, and how the bucking of her hips made that more difficult, and finally impossible, and I had to let it come into my warm, wet mouth, for safekeeping, and when her twitches and full-body flinches popped it out of my mouth, and when my mouth brought it back in, and when those two things kept happening until a series of dramatic thrusts that shook the bed, and she moaned, or screamed, or called my name, or all of that, in wave upon wave, until I realized her hands had been on the back of my head for quite some time, holding me there, and doing so still, but now with a shaky, soft caress that felt like acknowledgement and thanks and stay right there and don't go anywhere just yet but stop because I can't ... I have to .... stop ... I have to catch my breath, so oh my god thank you but for now, stop ... but stay, stay right there. Don't go anywhere.

That's how her hands felt to me, on the back of my head.

And then rested my head on her left thigh, riding out the aftershocks with her.

"What was that all about?" she said when she finally could speak.

I considered addressing the fact of us crossing a line we hadn't before, but I answered her question as it related to the question that started me in that direction.

"Well," I said, "you've suddenly reminded me of something I once read about Beethoven, I think."


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