In towelled robe, Sandy left the bedroom, looking for her husband, Jack. Previous evening, he’d been out, with his pal Brian, who governed Jack’s sobriety, as, feverishly, she’d waited, naked, knowing just one touch, and she’d explode.
When fingers stroked her breasts, a turbulent session was fused. She’d slobbered hungrily on his hardness, while, as ever, his other hand groped her swampiness.
Buttocks lifted, she squealed when that beloved shaft rampaged her saturated passage.
Downstairs, Jack’s red eyes peered from under a blanket, “Sorry, couldn’t get upstairs. Brian did everything. He’s so good.”
Silently, Sandy smiled her agreement, ‘So good.’
