When I got close enough, I just had to look at it; I put my face nice and close to the tent, by resting my chin on my father’s hip, and it was huge. With my face being so close to it, I saw that whatever was beneath his cover was bigger than my head. My heart throbbed in my chest, and I began to lick my lips. My privates (wait I can say pussy, because this is MY diary) my PUSSY began to tingle, and I was unable to control myself any longer. I took my hand and began to reach towards the tent, I took my hand and attempted to grab the tent. But, whatever was beneath my father’s cover was too big for my entire hand to wrap around it. As if almost by instinct, I pumped my hand back and forth on the mass. When I reached the top, I felt that his cover was moist on the very tip of the tent. There I was, stroking this enormous thing beneath my father’s covers, while wearing nothing but one of his old t-shirts and a pair of my panties. My bare legs shivered, and I began to pull the covers. And I should know because it was me that it happened to.Simmone was your archetypal femme fatale, the quintessential temptress to put all others in the shade and my association with her began in our local pub one Saturday afternoon in the late1990’s; and it’s probably fair to say that it may never have begun at all had I not indulged in just that one beer too many. I had known her and husband Ray for some time but only enough to offer a polite nod in greeting and say “Hello’. We did after all use the same pub as our ‘local’ but up until this point I don’t think I’d ever had a conversation with either of them. But like every other man who's eyes had fallen upon Simmone, and I dare say some women too, I would fantasise about finding myself on more than just her christmas card list. However, any sane Joe entertaining fancy ideas about Simmone only needed to take one look at Ray to know he’d have to be insane to try. (In all honesty I think that may be the reason Simmone married him - to.
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