She would relax and that wonderful sense of humor would entertain us. “Here’s to a great week of pure happiness,” I said, as we tinked our glass...s together. The food was ordered and brought efficiently to our table almost unnoticed in our intrigue with one another. As the wine had its predicted effect, Helen began to talk uninhibited by her original nerves. I felt her bare foot slowly moving up my leg as she chatted nonchalantly. “Hmmm,” I thought as I slid forward slightly. “This is going to. I spread her legs just enough. Laying on top of her I guide my cock inside her pussy."Mmmmmm, this is different."I kiss her neck as my lower body bounces up and down on her, our bodies smacking, each hit produces a kinky 'POP.' I sit on her and squeeze her legs together. It is now difficult to slide my cock in and out of her, the hole is so tight, there's no room to move, yet it feels SO GOOD. My pace is slow due to the obstacles, but her noises are more defined, louder, sexier than ever. . When she was at home, she was always exhausted. She never refused me sex, but it was no better than necrophilia, and gradually I stopped bothering. I deeply regretted selling the house in Tiburon because I would have surely gone there. I doubt very much that separation would have shocked her into change, and divorce would have inevitably followed. I find myself wondering if that might have been best. But such thinking is futile. I did sell the house. I did stay in Cambridge. And we did stay. I was wearing a pair of pastel lavender short-shorts, a ridiculously tight, half-sleeve pink t-shirt with the word ?hottie? spelled out in silver glitter across the front, and a pink scarf for a headband. On my feet I wore a pair of flat thong sandals decorated with rhinestones. The sandals had a hard sole that click-clacked with every step I took across a hard surface, drawing the eye to what I hoped—probably in vain—was a not-too-noticeable pale-pink French pedicure. It was in this get-up.
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