Standing on her front porch was a Greek god. At six foot four with sandy brown hair cut close, a lean muscular build, and light golden eyes, she couldn’t reconcile the Fex Ex uniform with its wearer. His name tag read Phillip, and at present, his jaw was hanging open at the sight of her. Lisa had a statuesque build, tall and lean and elegant. Her auburn locks were pulled into a sweeping chignon to display the graceful column of her throat. Her aqua eyes were snapping fire as she stood in nothing but a matching black lace bra and thong with a sassy garter belt supporting the filmy black stockings she wore. “Can I help you?” She demanded irritably. “Uhhh, ehem. Yeah.” He stammered awkwardly. “You need to sign.” He held the signature pad out to her. “There’s a lot, where do you want me to put it?” She stepped aside, holding the door open wider as she handed him back the signature device, “Over on the kitchen table is fine.” A chilly breeze finally alerted Lisa to her state of. I smelled mostly her shampoo and perfume mixed with a tad of the smell of sex from my now fully engaged prick. Moving one hand down to her neck, she automatically lifted her shoulder in response, pressing my hand more firmly against her. Though I’ve never felt it myself, her skin felt as smooth as the Jean-Antoine Houdon statue of Diana the Huntress that I saw in the Frick Collection many years ago. Of course, Diana would surely not have an acceptable BMI had she been human. But that same silky flesh was the epitome of youthful femininity yet, cool and solid when pressed. It was exciting and sensual, but also formidable and compelling. As these complex thoughts bounced around my addled skull, I hadn’t noticed — other than the feeling of completely unbridled pleasure — that her superb competence had once again completely engulfed my eight or nine inches so far down her throat that I could feel her nose jabbing me in my lower abdomen. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, she began to.
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