She had loved listening to him, she thought he was brilliant. She had occasionally done some singing with him, too. It seemed long ago. It was long ag..., actually. His mandolin lay collecting dust on top of a bookcase in the study. She shook off her reminiscences and addressed herself to the music again. The second song was an old favourite of hers and she happily hummed along. The men heard her and grinned at her. It was good to be sitting here listening, she thought. Folk nights were even. My now-lubed cockhead against your pucker. i hold your arse still... locked in my hands, fingers almost like pincers in your flesh and slowly...almost gently...penetrate your privatest hole. the flare of my glans slipping inside your near-burning hot asshole. you think you might tear...but then your asshole yields...(little tiny fissures all around that tight entrance...slime with a slight tinge of pink) and my cockhead disappears from view. i hold still...entire length of my shaft is. More

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