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worryingly reassuring to know my rusty moral compass has some vague idea of which way north is.
Don’t make me tease that wet pussy with my strong fingers and edge you into fucking oblivion because you’ve been a bad, bad girl.
I’ve long held the view that the good Captain had a twitchy palm of his own behind closed doors. Lucky Maria. That’s all I can say.
The only problem is the touches are too gentle. These guys aren’t grabbing or pinching or kneading. They’re massaging and stroking, softly and sensually and almost—goddammit—respectfully.
they’ve tried tantric sex, which not only creeps me out but tells me some people simply have too much time on their hands.
She pouts, and I internally roll my eyes. If she thinks I have difficulty withstanding manufactured female pouts, she has no fucking clue about parenting.
Two of us are working very hard, and neither of those people is me.
Who knew those three words would be more of a turn-on than good girl or suck my dick or take my cock?
