Each thrust sent another squirt out of my dick, and I was yelping like a bitch. He was subtly grunting and growling as he repeatedly poked my now wide...open pussy. I was cumming uncontrollably, and as he neared his end he reached in to French kiss me. I was his, he had fucked me into submission. All I cared about at that point was making his cock spew. After 8 to 10 more hard pumps as hard as he could into my pussy, he pulled back, he ripped off his rubber and asked me where I wanted his load on. And she recalled how beautiful it was, sitting in those smoky cafés, watching the pedestrians pass beyond the French doors. They all looked like artists, an elite parade of Beat aristocracy. She sat at this one particular coffee shop for hours, reading Maya Angelou, Adrienne Rich, Dickinson, her favorite, and also Plath, another favorite. She identified with Plath but never shared her afflictions, understood Dickinson’s solitude but never found herself alone. Perhaps it was the blessings of a. More

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