Isolde and George both laughed, and Isolde, said, “Oh look! A French maid!” They all three laughed then, and George said, “Get up here, Fool, and hand me the tray while you get yourself settled.” He reached out and took the tray and the bottle from Terry, who walked around to the other side of the bed, untying the apron as he did so. He carefully hung it over the back of the chair, and setting his pillow upright, clambered into the bed and pulled the sheet to his waist. George set the tray on his lap, and proceeded to pour the wine. He handed Terry’s and Isolde’s glasses to each of them, and picked up his own. “A toast,” he said, “To the three ring circus arm of the Brass Ring Plooka Band. I mean, Polka, ” he quickly emended. Isolde giggled as they clinked glasses. “Plooka, huh? And just whose ass are you thinking about plooking?” she asked. “Not mine!” Terry said quickly. “Gee,” George said, “I’ve never had a French maid before.” Isolde thought she heard a little edge creeping in. “Ohhhhhhh!” he moaned. She wrapped a forefinger and thumb around the base as she angled it down a little, the tip of her tongue tickled the swollen end. Her other hand had found it’s way inside her thong and was touching a wetness. In one go she swallowed his whole length and her nose touched his stomach. “Whoa!” he said in disbelief. She wanted to giggle but her mouth was way too full, still gripping it – she moved her lips up and down. It throbbed almost in unison of her swelling clit, she was drenched in her own juices and decided to remove her thong. She stood up and slid it down, after giving it a shake to remove sand – she hung it on a jagged stone on the cave wall. As she turned around she could see Wayne looking her up and down. “Like what you see?” she jested. “Oh yes!” he replied and moved her to the wall. He squatted down and lifted her left leg, her bare foot came to rest on one of his shoulders. In no time at all he had slid two fingers inside her wet pussy. “Oh my god!”.
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