Friendship And Infidelity, Part 1 free porn video

I met Sandra one Saturday in early spring. Phyllis and I had gone to the park for a run and were sitting in a coffee shop getting ready to go home for our weekly private afternoon when she waved suddenly. I looked over my shoulder at a very tall muscular black man and somewhat shorter black woman coming our way—though that still made her my height, give or take an inch. Phyllis said, “Dave, hi!” I shook hands with the man and she introduced us, “Dave, this is my boyfriend Cal. Dave is in my American lit class. He’s the TA I’ll be teaching with this summer.”

“Ah, so you’re the fellow,” I said as we shook hands.

“Indeed, I’m quite the fellow,” he joked, and we all laughed. “This is my girlfriend Sandra.”

“Are you also in English?” I asked.

She smiled as Dave and Phyllis laughed and said, “Oh, hell no, thank goodness.”

Dave said proudly, “She’s in physics.”

I looked at her more closely and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you then. Pleasant surprise.”

In puzzlement and with a trace of suspicion, she asked, “Why is that?”

“Because I’m sick as hell of listening to talk about a bunch of dead authors.” She smiled openly and happily and I continued, “And physicists, at least the ones I’ve known, are able to talk about subjects besides physics.”

Phyllis invited them to sit down and we chatted for an hour. While Sandra was an attractive woman, I didn’t take much notice of her at the time; later that day I would have been able to recognize her on the street but could only say she had medium dark skin, shoulder-length hair that was lightly curled, and an appealing body for men more interested in comfortable padding than I was. Her company was pleasant enough, however, and we soon found ourselves talking with each other as Phyllis and Dave continued a standing argument over Hawthorne’s novels. We sounded each other out on our tastes in books and music between occasional attempts Dave and Phyllis made to include us in their conversation—always soon defeated by the two launching off on another literary tangent—and at the time we made only slight impressions on each other. Eventually Dave and Sandra said they had to leave for a movie, and Phyllis said we had plans of our own.

After we got home, Phyllis and I quickly undressed and retired to the bedroom for our regular Saturday afternoon recreation. We had only short opportunities during the week for sex, so we saved up and splurged on Saturday afternoons doing whatever we felt like doing to each other. By this point it had settled into an unvarying routine. We kissed, if not passionately at least eagerly, until I was hard and she was wet. Her body was close to my ideal of the time: She was an inch or so taller than me and well-toned from running as much as I did, and she had smallish firm breasts with light pink aureoles, wide hips, and long taut legs. Her hair was a bit darker and oranger than strawberry blonde and fell down around a thin face and wiry neck to just below her shoulder blades.

She spread her thighs for me to let me see the ever-fascinating sight of her body, which always struck me as being like a dessert: The off-white of creamy vanilla ice cream with light brown freckles here and there (I teased her once that her vanilla contained peanut s prinkle s) , and lower down a thick tuft of orange hair almost the color of orange sherbet above a pink gash the color of strawberry sherbet. I stroked myself as she rubbed herself, and when we got close she said, “My turn, right?”

“Yes. How do you want it?”

“The usual.”

I crouched above her breasts and let her stroke me as she stared hungrily at my cock. I reached behind me to insert two fingers inside her, and as she thrust up against me she stroked me vigorously. She moaned and tightened around my fingers, and she came at the same time my orgasm seized me. She moaned, “Yes, yes,” as my cum shot onto her face and into her hair, and she smiled up at me with dribbles of cum running down the sides of her face.

We alternated hors d’oeuvres on Saturday, as we called our first bout of sex, and her usual choice was to make me cum all over her face as I rubbed her off; next Saturday I would probably drain myself on or between her tits as she rubbed off. While neither of us quite got the thrill the other did from doing pretty much the same thing we liked three to six inches away from where we liked it, we had early on found it added the necessary spice to keep things hot. I once asked her why she got off on facials: “Because I’m supposed to hate being degraded by it,” she replied. In turn, she was convinced I had been weaned much too soon, which made sense enough to me.

We immediately launched into the first course. She sucked me until I was semi-hard and welcomed me inside her. I thrust happily until I was fully hard and settled down to slow and steady work in her tunnel. She watched my face with her shining blue eyes as I aimed my cock the way I had learned to best stimulate her, and as my cum on her face dried her pussy wettened and drained onto the bed. She had two small climaxes in short order, and as she worked to a large one I began gasping in pleasure. Soon she cried out incoherently as her body went wild and taut underneath me, and I pushed hard into her and held still as the clenching of her pussy drained me as expertly as any fist.

I collapsed beside her and we lay side by side gasping for air. Soon she kissed me as she groped for my cock, and despite the earlier exertions she soon had me hard. She settled herself above me and shoved her pussy in my face as she took me fully into her mouth. We went at each other with a clinical precision for each other’s needs borne of two years of constant practice and perhaps a little too soon treated each other to a simultaneous orgasm.

We rested after the second course for fifteen minutes and finally worked up the energy for a shower, where we habitually had dessert. However, this Saturday I found myself uninterested in taking her from behind in the shower, and she didn’t seem disappointed. While we had been lovers from the week we met and cared for each other very much, our relationship had felt off and rote to me for several months, and though our sex was as good as ever, it had started leaving me feeling a bit empty. As we washed off the dried sweat from our run and the other dried fluids we had drenched each other in, I looked down and admired Phyllis’s body, which was flawless, and noticed my admiration was mostly esthetic. My mood passed with dinner—a more commonplace Saturday dinner of chicken and dumplings—and when we sat down to read together in the living room that passed as our study, I felt content.

Over the next month and a half we became close friends with Dave and Sandra. We ran into each other the next day and had coffee together again. For the first half-hour Dave and Phyllis made an honest and successful effort to keep all four of us on the same topic, and as Sandra and I had no overriding desire to steer the conversation elsewhere talk eventually drifted to American literature of the 1920s and 1930s. After Dave and Phyllis finished taking out their frustrations on poor Sinclair Lewis’s corpse, Phyllis asked, “Who was that fellow Sloan mentioned? Thorne Smith?”

“That sounds right,” Dave answered uncertainly.

“Oh, he’s fun!” Sandra interjected.

I looked at her in surprise and said, “Yes, yes he is.”

Dave and Phyllis looked at us silently for several seconds, then Dave asked, “What did he write?”

“Silly fantasy novels with lots of drinking described in great detail and a fair amount of sex that he only hinted at. Oh, and policeman-beating. He really liked the idea of beating up policemen.”

Sandra added, “And whales on dry land. Don’t forget the whales.”

“His characters could never forget the whales, so how could we?”

“We could if we drank as much as they did.”

I looked at Dave and Phyllis and said, “Topper. That’s his most famous novel. Hard-drinking ghosts, got made into movies and a TV show. My parents loved the show as kids, so they got me the book when I got old enough to drink. Whether that was encouragement or a serious warning, I’m not really sure.”

“But The Night Life of the Gods is the best,” Sandra added, “though Rain in the Doorway has its moments.”

“Sales ladies in lingerie selling dictionaries of obscenities is great. Two chapters making fun of the Kiwanis is very much not great.”

“Was it the Kiwanis? I thought it was the Rotarians.”

“It was all of the above and then some.”

“God, it must have been awful to live in a country where that crap was funny.”

“Yeah, it was so awful even he forgot to be funny about it.”

“Well, if I had to sit through a Rotarians meeting for three or four hours, I’d probably think making duck noises and setting beards on fire was funny too.”

Dave and Phyllis watched us in a bit of bewilderment as we did our teasing best to bewilder them, and then Phyllis said, “So anyway, Sloan said something about him and Mencken.”

Sandra replied, “That sounds like something a freshman would dream up who doesn’t know much about the twenties.”

I replied, “Yeah, they were both iconoclasts and hated the same Babbitts, but they didn’t really have much else in common.”

With that Dave and Phyllis effectively threw up their hands and turned to Edith Wharton, while Sandra and I continued chatting. Mencken led immediately to George Schuyler, pleasing Sandra immensely that I had read him, and from him to the Harlem Renaissance. We soon discovered books we both enjoyed, and as we talked about Plum-Bun we had become friends. Remembering I liked classical music, she asked me if I had heard William Grant Still’s Afro-American Symphony. “Why, yes,” I replied. “It’s quite good. I like it a lot. It might be the only piece of classical music I’ve ever heard with a banjo part.”

“So it’s unjustly forgotten then?”

“No, it’s never been forgotten. There are several recordings, but nobody much listens to anything but the old warhorses or the latest fads any more. It’s not Barber, but it’s still far better than average.”

“You mean Copland,” she grinned.

“No, I mean Barber.”

“So you think Barber’s greater than Copland then.”

“Yes, but really, at that level of skill it’s just a matter of preference.”

“Fair enough.”

And so our conversation continued until it ended too soon. By the time we separated, I knew her face and figure quite well. Her face was round and expressive, with an average nose and full lips under shining brown eyes; her hair was lightly curled and, as I discovered, arranged in a wide variety of styles from one week to the next. Her neck was thick and fairly long, joining wide shoulders above swelling breasts, a thick waist curving into wide hips, and a belly that was well-rounded and firm but not actually fat. Up to that time I preferred my women athletic, wiry, firm-breasted, and thin-hipped, but Sandra soon impressed on me the great virtues of a full figure offering rounded flesh to attract the eyes and padding to soften a lover’s vigorous thrusts.

We made arrangements to meet for dinner Tuesday following, and soon the four of us were meeting three or four times a week. Dave and Phyllis usually took the opportunity to spend most of their time discussing the upcoming class they were to help teach, leaving Sandra and me to chatter like jay birds about whatever bright and shiny trinkets came to mind.

One evening about two weeks after our first meeting, we were having dinner at their apartment, take-out Indian food. Dave chuckled as he ate some murg saagwala, “You know, when you think about it, chicken and spinach—it’s really just Indian soul food.”

We laughed and Sandra replied, “Except that it’s not pork and there are no grits and it’s not greasy. For all of which, thank God.”

“Okay, the chicken makes it upscale soul food.”

“So, let me guess,” she smiled, “the Egyptians created soul food in 75,000 BC and the Indians learned it from them?” The pair of them had a couple of rather radically cracked friends whom they often took jabs at in their absence.

“Don’t you scoff, missy, they might well have.” We laughed and Dave continued, “But it is a heart-warming similarity. Africa and India, cousins under the skin.”

I interjected, “Except that soul food’s really a great deal Indian at root. The other Indians, that is.”

Sandra smiled and said, “I really do think you need to elaborate on that little piece of heresy.”

I smiled back and said, “Seriously, the basics of Southern cooking came from the Indians in the Southeast.”

Dave frowned, “How?”

“Because in the early 1700s, in South Carolina probably a quarter of the slaves were Indians. The British were allied to the tribes near the coast, and those tribes made war on tribes further inland. They’d capture prisoners and sell them to the British, and most of them were women since they were less likely to run away to go home. So they married, well, not technically since slaves couldn’t marry, but they had families with African men, and taught what they knew about plants and animals to their children.”

“So even our food’s not our food?” she smiled with an evil glint in her eye.

I smiled back, “No, of course it’s your food. It has Indian roots, but there are African elements. Okra, for example. And the tradition itself is, oh, thoroughly a part of black culture.”

And for the next few minutes I essentially recapitulated the basics of a course on Southern social history I had taken and continued reading about. At the end of it, Phyllis said, “See what I have to listen to all the time? Just don’t get him started on the Insular Cases.”

We laughed and Sandra asked, “Why, are they boring?”

Phyllis replied, “When he talks about them they’re fascinating. Afterwards you wonder how the hell that happened.”

After dinner we split into our by-then habitual pairs, and as Phyllis and Dave sat at the table going over the choices of books for one of the papers in the class, Sandra and I sat in the living room and talked more about Southern history. By this point in our friendship we had become mildly flirtatious and completely at ease with each other, and finally she smiled and asked, “You’ve had a couple of black girlfriends, haven’t you?”

I was puzzled and said, “No, never have. Why do you think so?”

“Shame, you’d be a good match. You seem like you had. You’re completely normal about...what we’ve been talking about. Most of the white people who talk about it are not normal about it at all. Either they’re dismissive or they’re too curious, really creepy about it. Like they’re, oh, trying to be honorary blacks, you know. Or to show how super-enlightened they are sticking up for us unusual others.”

“Hmm, do you get that a lot?”

“No, but it really stands out when it happens. So it’s just history to you?”

I shook my finger at her. “I study history. There is no such thing as ‘just’ history. There is history, and then there’s less interesting stuff.”

“No, there’s physics, then there’s less interesting stuff.”

“I stand corrected. There’s physics, then history, then a few dozen places further down the list, literature.” We laughed and I continued, “But yes, it’s an important part of American history.”

We talked for two more hours, and as we talked I realized I was falling for her, and indeed that I had been since our second meeting. I noticed every movement she made and every detail of her face and figure and often found myself staring into her eyes, which didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. Phyllis and I left a bit after ten, and when we got home we went straight to bed.

Unusually for a week night, Phyllis was in a very passionate mood and quickly had me equally aroused. She pulled me over on top of and into her, and as she thrust up against me I closed my eyes and imagined it was Sandra’s body I was riding. I thrust hard to thoughts of Sandra smiling up at me and saying, “Yes, you’d be a very good match,” and the fantasy of her softly rounded brown body and knowing black eyes drove me to two orgasms in quick succession. As we fell asleep drenched in sweat, I felt guilty at my first thoughts of infidelity, but not as guilty, I suspected, as I should have.

For the next month I was bedeviled by thoughts of Sandra. Every Saturday afternoon Phyllis and I had a three-course meal with hors d’oeuvres and dessert that for me consisted of little more than masturbation to thoughts of Sandra using Phyllis’s body instead of my fist, which was my daily companion the other days of the week. At the same time I was torn by feelings of guilt towards Phyllis, and alternated between breaking up with her immediately and burying my feelings for Sandra.

Our meetings with Dave and Sandra continued without diminished frequency. Dave and Phyllis often talked shop, leaving Sandra and me to entertain each other. When I was with her, I was convinced she was on the edge of throwing herself at me; upon separating I was equally convinced I was a lust-drunk fool. Several times Dave and Phyllis had afternoon or evening meetings with their professor and boss, the ever-present Sloan of their conversations, and on many of those occasions Dave and Phyllis insisted Sandra and I have dinner together, go to a movie, or otherwise make up for their absence.

A month after I started traipsing into infidelity, Dave and Phyllis had a major curriculum meeting and insisted the two of us go to a concert in a nearby park that we had planned on attending as a quartet. Sandra met me at the door in a light blue cotton summer dress that, as with all of her outfits, showed little cleavage but fit her snuggly enough to please the eye and entice the hands. As we walked, she seemed a little quieter than usual, but came alive as we reached the park. The band concert was well-performed and ended as the sun was close to setting. Sandra asked, “Do you know this park well?”

“Yes.”

“I’d be honored, kind sir, if you’d be so good as to show me around it.”

I smiled and said, “The little forest towards the south end is very fine.”

She smiled in return and said, “Lead on.”

We followed a path into the trees as the crowd dispersed under the darkening sky. Once we entered the trees, I offered her my arm, and she took it so as to push my elbow deep into her right breast. I found it hard to breathe as we walked, and as her hip brushed against mine my throat dried up. The forest was quiet and dark, and I caught myself staring at Sandra several times as we walked, most of which she also caught and simply held with a smile.

We came to a covered picnic spot. She leaned against the picnic table and looked at me unblinkingly. Finally she said, “I like you, you know.”

“I like you too,” I answered, expecting a heart-rending ‘but’ to follow.

“I mean I really like you.”

“And I.”

She bit her lip. “Enough mealy-mouthed bullshit. I love you. I’ve practically offered myself to you on a plate for the last month and you’ve left me high and dry. Well, actually it left me feeling really low and really wet. I really hope this doesn’t ruin things between us. And if you just use me, cheat on Phyllis for the hell of it and destroy everything between me and Dave for a little cheap nookie, I will make your life very unhappy.”

I walked up to her and kissed her and said, “I love you too, but I didn’t think you were interested.”

“How could you think that?”

I shrugged and kissed her again. She melted into me and pulled me to her, knees already spread open, and pulled away to whisper, “I need you now.” She reached down to pull the hem of her dress up to her waist as I reached down and undid my pants and underwear, which dropped to my ankles. She leaned back a little onto the table and stared into my eyes as I positioned myself and thrust inside her.

I had never entered a woman as hot and wet as she was. She smiled as I buried myself to the hilt on the first stroke, and said, “Don’t pull out. It’s safe.” I took my time at first, overwhelmed by the heat of her pussy and the lust in her eyes, and only slowly became aware of the feel of her body under my hands as I caressed her.

“Good, that’s really good,” she said. “God, I need this so much. I’ve been going crazy the last weeks, rubbing off every day imagining you inside me.”

I looked at her pushing rhythmically against me, face tilted away from me, eyes mostly closed, and sucked on her neck and ears and kissed her jaw as her body enveloped me. “You’re so beautiful,” I said, “how could you fall for a schlub like me?”

“It is a mystery,” she replied. Then she moaned, “Oh God, I’m going to come.” She breathed raggedly and moaned with each of our thrusts. I looked down to see her sturdy body warm and softly plump straining towards me, and suddenly she went taut and whispered, “Oh God, please don’t come yet please don’t please don’t keep filling me up with your cock oh God!” Words then failed her and she groaned as her pussy squeezed tight around me.

I continued fucking her with the same rhythm, hard, fast, and deep, reveling in the woman of my dreams taking her pleasure from me. She leaned further back on her elbows and raised her knees to my armpits. The changed angle soon drew another orgasm out of her. She raised herself to kiss me and whispered, “You can come now. Use my body. I want you to come so hard you pass out. My pussy is yours, let me make you happy with it.”

I groaned and thrust harder into her, getting close but hoping to hold off long enough to make her come again, which she soon did. Her third climax was very strong. She pulled away from our kiss and watched me. “Show me how much you want me,” she said.

“I’m going to fuck you raw.”

She smiled, “Many have tried. You’ve come the closest though.”

I grabbed her hips tightly and thrust up hard into her. She gasped as I pulled out almost to the tip and thrust back inside her, letting myself feel as if I were trying to push myself completely inside her. Her eyes opened wide as I pummeled her, and soon she held onto my shoulders to push back against me stroke for stroke. I could feel her dress sliding back and forth under my hands as they tried to hold her in place, and in another minute she fell into another orgasm, her pussy tightening around me like a squeezing fist. This was too much. I fancied my member had expanded to six inches across and a foot long and demanded to be put as far inside her as it would reach; I groaned as I emptied into her all the attraction and lust I had built up for her over the last four weeks, spurt after spurt after vigorous spurt draining from me into her.

As I held her, she rested her head against my shirt and caught her breath. “That was the best first time I’ve ever had,” she finally said.

“I wanted that for so long.”

“The last month and a half were terrible,” she said. “Every time I saw you I wanted you a little more. I kept hoping you’d do something to piss me off so I could forget about you, but I was also afraid of that.” After a few seconds she asked, “When did you first want me?”

“A month ago.”

“At dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“I wanted you after the first day we met. But that wasn’t serious. That dinner made it serious.”

“I must have churned out a gallon of cum the last month thinking about you.”

She giggled and said, “By yourself or into Phyllis?”

“Both.”

“Bet she wondered what had gotten into her. I’m sure Dave sits in his little office all day grinning how he’s been fucking me like a tiger. He’d be pissed if he knew I was imagining you most of the time.”

I checked my watch. “We fucked for twenty-five minutes. My longest ever, I think.”

She looked around and over my shoulder. “I hope no one saw us. I wouldn’t have heard a thing.”

“I hope they liked the show.”

“Some show. Look how dark it is. They wouldn’t have seen me. Just you. Just your pasty white ass. Imagine some poor kid walking by, she’d be scarred for life. ‘Mommy, why was that ghost mooning me?’”

We laughed. She pushed me away slightly and said, “We need to go. It’s getting late.” I pulled up my pants and covered my pasty white ass as she rubbed a handkerchief between her thighs and smoothed her dress back down, and then I offered her my arm as we walked through the park towards the street to town center.

She asked, “So what did you fantasize about us doing?”

“Taking you in every position and pumping you full of my juice, half of the time.”

“Mmm, yes, that’s good.”

“Most of the rest of the time, coming in your mouth.”

She looked at me seriously and asked, “Do you like eating pussy?”

“Yes, I love it.”

She relaxed, “Good, I’ll do that for you then, with pleasure. I’ve been with men who wouldn’t let their faces get within six inches of my pussy but expected me to let them fuck my throat. It has to be mutual, or I won’t do it.” After a few seconds she asked, “And you really love eating pussy?”

I nodded and grinned, and she smiled and said, “Then we’ll make each other very happy. I’ll be your cup and you’ll be my straw.”

After we laughed she asked, “And the rest of the time?”

“The rest of the time? Oh, when I was thinking of you. It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me.” I blushed and she said, “If you want to do it to me, let me know. You might get lucky.”

“Oh, you know, jerking off while watching you rub off.”

She nodded, “That’s certainly doable.”

“And between your breasts.”

“That’s doable. Anything else?”

“Well, yes...”

She looked at me with a raised eyebrow as I blushed, and she finally said, “Let me guess. Anal, right?” I nodded and she continued, “Nope. I’m sure you’ll think I’m a terribly old-fashioned girl, but I’m saving that for my wedding night.” We laughed quietly and she said, “That’s the truth though.”

I replied, “So to get to put it in your ring, a fellow has to put a ring on it.”

She laughed loudly and said, “Well put, love.”

We reached the street without further chatting and let loose each other’s arm. She looked at me under the next streetlight and asked, “What’s the matter?”

“You know, you’ll probably think I’m terribly old-fashioned, but I’ve never cheated on anyone before.”

“Neither have I. Does it bother you that much?”

“Well, yes. Doesn’t it you?”

“Not so much now. At first it drove me crazy. But then I asked myself, are you married? No. That would be bad, very bad. Are you two engaged? No. That would be very bad too. Are you two really in love? If you were, you wouldn’t be interested in me. You follow?”

“Sort of.”

“So I asked myself, why does that make a difference? I realized it’s because I’m not really in love with Dave. Not like I was at first. We’re just...coasting, I guess. That I’m so hot for you, that it’s driving me crazy for wanting you, is a sign of that.”

“And?”

“And once I realized that, I waited to see if you were good enough to start something with.”

“So when are you telling him?”

“I don’t know. First I needed to know you were in the same position I was. Now I want to make sure you’re really worth it, make sure I’m not just fucking around on him.”

After a while she asked, “Do you love Phyllis?”

“Yes, no, sort of, maybe.”

“You need to figure it out. I’m not telling Dave anything until we’re together on this. I’m not just playing around; I want something serious. I love you; you say you love me. This is the real thing for me. Understand?”

“So should we wait then?”

“Wait? For sex? No. Why?”

“Well Christ, if we don’t we’re just being dishonest.”

She breathed out quickly and finally said, “No, think about it. If you sleep with me, you know the truth and I know it; it’s only Phyllis you’re lying to. If we decide not to do it even when we know it’s what we want and need, then we’re lying to all three of us. All four of us.”

“I’m not sure I agree with that.”

She smiled. “Just think about it. I’m sure you’ll discover my reasoning is perfect.”

I smiled back, “We’ll see. In any case, I still have the practical problem of getting home.”

“Oh?”

“I’m covered with your smell. No way Phyllis will ignore it. I need to get home before she does so I can shower. Even then she’ll smell you on my clothes.”

She looked at me thoughtfully. “Yes, that is a problem. Let’s think for a minute.”

We were nearing our apartments at that point. “I’m thirsty,” she said. “Buy me something to drink?”

“Of course.”

We went into a convenience store, where she ran off an instant hot chocolate from the machine. After I had paid and we left, she said, “Let’s sit there and talk some more,” pointing at a bench. When we sat, she asked, “Wanna sip?”

I nodded, but when she handed it to me she let it sip and watched it pour all over my lap. “Oops, did I do that?” she asked innocently.

“What the hell?”

“Problem solved. Now your lap smells like two kinds of cocoa. If you get home after she does, just say you had a spill and take a shower. I doubt she’ll smell me over that.”

I smiled, “The first cocoa was hotter.”

“Yeah, I think the burner in the cocoa machine’s busted. Lukewarm cup of crap.”

“And the first batch probably tastes better.”

She grinned, “We’ll have to test that soon. This woman has needs.”

We soon reached the point where our paths split. She made a discreet kiss at me and quietly said, “Soon. Soon we’ll be together.” She smiled giddily and added, “This is wonderful. I can’t believe it came true!”

I grinned like a madman and nodded, and we walked our separate ways, turning around a couple of times to look at each other. Fortunately, I saw no one else on the street. I got home quickly and was relieved to find Phyllis hadn’t returned. I quickly stripped and showered, and by the time Phyllis arrived I was in bed on the edge of sleep. She kissed me and began playing with me, and as I remembered Sandra taking full possession of me I came fully erect and let Phyllis ride me. She soon came and a minute later I joined her in orgasm, thrusting up into her as I pulled her hips down onto me, and we rolled over and immediately fell asleep.