It was a depressing day. One of my young married lovers couldn’t do it any longer, “my husband is starting to suspect,” and it was dark and dreary with lots of rain. Seattle does have its moment but not today. She was one of the best married babes I
“What is it about you? All I want most of the time is you inside of me.” One of my three married ladies, the tall blonde… . “You do things to me that my husband would never do or could do.” Lisalegs, wet all the time Lisalegs, at least when she is
She loves my wicked pen,
My wicked pen of non-commitment,
For she is married already,
My wicked pen is what makes her heady.
My touch, my kiss fills her loneliness
With excitement and lust for life.
“Write me, write to me autumn’s poet,
“Do the cock dance for me… please Sailor.” That is what she calls it the “cock dance.” She lays on my bed all laid and happy, in the “glowing” transitional state of “wanting another round, another do, please do me, do whatever you want to do to me.
The oldest woman that I have made love to was 33 years of age and I was pushing 46. She is about five feet and six inches tall, 120 pounds of French legs, tight butt, average waist and very nice breasts and she knew how to use them. She also has her
“You are perfect, just perfect, the perfect size for me. Far from small, not to big, your penis is mine big man.” She said in a dominating position hovering over top of me, taking it in her long fingered hand then sliding it into her slit of wet hotn
No rings she donned,
“I’m a free woman” her song,
As she crossed her long shapely legs,
And looked at me impishly one table away,
I safely went back to my book and read.
I felt young eyes staring at me,
With self proclaimed liberty,
I wonder what the magic is, I mean what do women, girls and ladies all, see in a man? I really don’t think that I am a “real” handsome man, on a scale of one to ten I guess that I would be a seven, maybe even a six, a little above average looks I wou
There are dreams and then, there are dreams, what I call “reality dreams.” Reality dreams are real, just as real as the person (in this case a young married woman) that has made contact subliminally in the other person’s wakeful sleep, more like a tr