She came to his apartment. He came to hers. He read his New Yorker at the café, enjoying watching her work. He wrote poetry every morning. Rather tha... going to the pool, Paul began sitting in the park a block away from the café, a place he had recently discovered, and he liked going there while waiting for Wendy. He liked sitting in the shade, reading, writing in his notebook, feeding pigeons, watching people. One day, he thought he heard the sound of a motorcycle drive by and looked up and. Inch by inch she worked it in and out, quickening then slowing the tempo. She put the book down and raised her knees. It wasn’t necessary now to read, the plot had placed the image in her mind of a young stud lifting her legs over his shoulders and leaving her open cunt vulnerable to his angry swollen member. Driving the plastic cock in deep she noted that she had never had Georges cock up so far. ‘Fuck me” she blurted out. She was hot now. and it was sliding in so easily, her juices. More

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