" Her laugh is low and thrilling, and I whimper as her fingers touch my clit. God, it feels like a pebble, hard and hot and huge as she strokes it gently with her finger, and I melt back against her, making helpless little keening noises. Meanwhile, she's making soothing sounds, whispering my name, telling me to let go. There's a brief awkward moment where we shift positions, so that I am sitting with my back to her between her open thighs, feeling her against my back - I swear she is so much bigger than me I could almost rest her massive breasts on my shoulders - her lips in my hair, her muffled voice a hum in her chest that reverberates through to me, her fingers performing a delicate little dance, her left hand on my clit, her right stroking the undersides of my breasts, occasionally running gentle fingers over the nipples. It's sweet, and gentle, and soft, and the buildup is slow and agonizing. I keep wanting more, crying for it, begging with bucking hips and mewling gasps, the. I couldn't reach satisfaction though, moral inhibitors blocked my libido and shrunk my prickle to a wriggling worm. I was dying from shame and guilt and humiliation - I could have cried! Now, sitting in a tiny dark cell in the cellar of the Bastille, I still cannot fathom the real depth of my bad luck. But I know now with certainty, that security is a tricky word, and that destiny can change its direction like the copper cock on the church tower. It was a fact to me now, that history could walk a pleasant pace trough its sunny days, but also could spin completely out of control on its dark times! Professor Tutu before had picked up Candela, he repaid me handsomely for my favor and the both soon couldn't live without each other anymore. They married and elaborated a handful of pitch-black brats. Justine had managed to get herself pregnant too, and Joseph had run away, never to be seen again. When one dark night the grenadiers moved in, declared my household a whorehouse of debauchery,.
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