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I sat across the table and watched her supple lips as she tasted her green tea. So young, sweet. Her hand trembled as she turned a page from the packet of real estate listings, her face alight, soft as a rose pedal. I needed her badly…I needed to peel her clothes from her body and shower her in hot cum.

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We were in the back seat of her car parked behind a sushi restaurant when I pulled her thong to the side and pressed two fingers slowly into her wet, begging pussy. We were exhausted with anticipation after days of merciless correspondence, and she glowed with eager desperation.

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She suddenly turned to me and sighed, almost as if she would break into tears. I hugged her, not knowing what to do or say in the cool night air. Then, in a flash, her lips were against mine…”I could not be doing this!” I thought…she knew I could not be doing this…but her tongue invaded, slithering against mine, roving firmly and deeply. “Dirty girl,” I thought, and she wanted me to know how dirty…how much she wanted it…how much she needed to be fucked. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Never. I was certain

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It was midnight and I let myself in. She was in the kitchen fixing a snack, short, red kimono robe that extended to the bottom of her butt cheeks. She looked over her shoulder.

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We are spooning as I awaken. I don’t know how long it has been. I smell her hair and admire her neck. She is reveling in sublime peace, and I marvel at the shallow rising of her chest with each breath. She is as beautiful in hibernation as in the quakes of passion, and I worship the contour of her body…the way it melds so elegantly with mine. I want to know what she is dreaming. I notice I am still inside her, and remain relaxed in post-coital bliss, allowing my tired phallus to escape gradually.

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She was half naked when I walked in. A short black dress with tiny straps. She offered me some water. I accepted, and admired what I could see of her bare ass as she walked into the kitchen. It was a very short dress. 

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"Hey you."

I tried to relax. I had barely sensed her behind me as I pulled down the bar.

"Hey," I responded.

I anguished through three more reps before turning around, imagining how hard she would slap me across the face. But no, she just looked down at me with bemusement, her elegant, dirty self - patterns of sweet sweat drenching her tight shirt, face flush. I was calm but composed. I don’t usually tell people about my sex blog. I was a out of line, and I knew it. (She just smelled so damned delicious). Anyway, I expected her to tell me never to talk to her again. I decided to speak first.

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I liked to be close enough to inhale her heavenly stench. It was intoxicating, encouraging me as I strained against the bar. Today she was delightfully ripe, and the sweat rolled down my face as her rankness invaded each breath, accompanying and provoking my filthy mind. 

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