Scent For A Man free porn video

Interestingly, or naturally, not, if you happen not to be interested. But what is interest anyway? I wonder if it's merely just passing fancy? The glimpse of the eyebrow on the side of the bus coquettishly raised to advertise yet more mascara? As the young grey tired man who longs for something he can't articulate drives by? On his way to work. Trying to maintain sufficient road rage to justify his mundane domestic existence as the cars roar noisily, as equally indifferent to his plight as his artificial rage and inexorably past him on the motorway of life. Yet knowing all the while that the control he needs to exert keep his sub-surface anger in check is the same knuckle biting angst which denies him his... his... oh to be articulate. What does he want? Does he long for the Cuddles he used to get from his mother? The delicate sexy arch of the eyebrow on the omnibus now a confused and vanishing memory. Memory. Memory. Is that interest? Is it perhaps his wife? At home. Left back there in the London dormitory town of Reading? Does she know interest? Or even interestingly? He leaves at 5.30 am every morning before dawn in winter - barely after dawn in summer - and if it's raining it's always dark anyway... he never sees his grey listless angry children because by the time he gets home he's had to stop somewhere for a chunk of alcohol with someone who he hopes he finds interesting - to dull the dread and warm the surface. And they're asleep already. Or locked defiantly in their rooms tracing pornography across their monitors. She Undresses for bed. She might almost be alone. Lonely. Is she able to generate interest? Do memories come to her which she needs to keep her inner flame alive? Or to extinguish for the anguish? Is that interesting? It's now quite well known (our heroine Lizzie has recently discovered) that the sense of smell - that sense we so little understand, so sweetly disregarded in the battle for supremacy between sight sound and speech, is more pronounced in one gender than the other. Even touch seems to fade as we become less interested in each other. What happened to all that electricity? To those sweet Caresses? Was it ever there? It's hard to recall it isn't it? Drinking the third whisky in the garish bar listening to your closest friends dissecting Sven Goran's latest gaffe - not knowing whether it's sporting or other. Sven Goran Erikson? What is it about him that demands he contribute to this drivel, as equally garish ladies and equally dreary men accentuate their unwanted sad ugliness and prejudices and superiorities so as not to feel embarrassed. Until later. At home. When realisation envelopes and fogs. When it's better to deny your spouse for fear of weeping. Smelling of old beer, cheap (or even expensive) whisky - it's all the same afterwards - third party smoke... That sense of skin on skin, those smells that one gender knows better than the other. What happened? Does he even think about them any more? Is this interesting? Does she, does that lonely pressed deserted wife deny her interests? Does the word interestingly give her pause? Like it really should? Is there life around here somewhere? Are there the Kisses she needs and deserves somewhere? What happened? It's all so difficult. It's all so grey. Where's the instant gratification? The deferred gratification? Any kind of gratification? Dear God, surely this might generate a spot of "interestingly"? Interestingly then and I say again - if you are interested. By which I mean if interest still lurks at least covertly in your breast. Or if interest leaps daily from your heart. If your finger tips still contain that mysterious need to touch and to explore and to learn and to be excited. If your eye balls still stalk out at the sight of an ankle. Or a heel. And you are engaged by them. If your hair bounces just so and you smile to see it. If he wolf whistles just exactly when the timing is perfect. When you don't have to look... except when you just want to... When you can just feel warm and oh! electric. And you can carry it home and your children can't help but see you smiling like you should. When your spouse catches herself at your cheekiness - and interest. That interest - that sense (another one?) of interest - that sense that interest is so very essential to health. So vital for excitement. So needed for mutuality. I say yet again - interestingly - it is the female sex which has the greater sense of smell. It Opens so many avenues for conjecture. In an age when smelling things seems so unutterably constrained by exhaust fumes, filled diapers and nappies, sneakers, ashtrays, old whisky (!), it seems to be quietly fading - much like a distant scent really. And what, exactly, is the need for the little cardboard fir trees swinging from every other car mirror disseminating their ghastly eye crunching gases? Hmmm? Do you know there is a man (strangely) who is employed by the North American Space Administration to sniff things? He sniffs plastics, felt tip pens, what sweat effects there might be on space suits after a few weeks in the International Space Station (the brightest thing in the night sky by the way - if you find that interesting). Or even if you can see it. He sniffs things so that the lunatics who spend their lives becoming floating human sardines (bless them) don't go completely batty on account of being unable to remove themselves from the overpowering scent of an overly minty candy. Say. Can you imagine a scent so irritating and so far up in space, where there's nothing you can do as it Licks around your nasal tissues, that it simply drives you silently and murderously mad? What about the journey to Mars? That would be a problem I think. But doesn't this raise an interesting question? The question is this and as I mull it over, as I the Duteous wife have the ironing on auto pilot, as I listen for the pinger on the cooker for his supper, as I glance at the clock to see if my step-son is late home from school yet, as I stand here stroking the iron back and forth hoping my own son won't wake just yet (please), I think about the question. Because I can. What if the smell of just the electronics humming along 12 miles up in space around and around the planet is alright for the sniffer man, but is NOT alright for the spacemen? Or even just one of them? And anyway, women always smell better than men. And I smile. I have a few more minutes of luxury thinking left and I'm still rather intrigued about this sense of smell news. It's strange isn't it, that you can remember a person's voice, or the sound of a curlew whistling; and you can remember what your face looks like (or at least what you fondly or even sadly think your face looks like - now there's an interesting topic for thought!), but it's very difficult to remember what anything actually smells like. And yet, the instant, the very instant, you catch a scent you recognize, you may be transported back decades to where you first smelled it. I have to confess that I am really a little sniffingly obsessive. I do like to smell my son's hair (he's only four). I like the smell of fresh turned soil after the plough - so much so (and this goes for nearly all smells) I actively seek them out. I do know that smell is a very basic thing. It's what animals do best. And we were animals hundreds of thousands of years ago. Sniffing our way to food, or safety, or what passed for a loved one - a mate. In order to couple like rutting beasts. I fondle that thought for a while. Sex smells great doesn't it? My cunt has so many different scents. His cock too. And his arse. I wonder if I could get him to be more interested in his sense of smell? Maybe it is a learnable sense? Could I get him to appreciate his sense of smell better? Suddenly, out of nowhere, I am wondering what I actually could get him to do. I suspect something so deeply primitive can't be learned any more than you can unlearn how to tie your shoelaces. I mean, you might forget, but that's not unlearning is it. I realize that my mind is getting infatuated with what I might get him to do for me. Don't think about it Lizzie, don't think about it. Okay, alright, think about it then. What could you get him to do. No use asking him to do the washing up, he already does that. Well he washes and I dry. Or mow the lawn, or fix the car. No not that, it would have to be something out of the ordinary. In fact it will be something out of the ordinary. And then quite suddenly and frighteningly, as my cunt swells and leaks, as my lovely pink nipples grow hard as unripe grapes, I know what I'm going to do. I daren't say it. I'm terrified. How could I even think it. Where did it come from? This is too much. But it won't go away. The more I wish it gone, the more my heat grows. I find myself pressing against my thumb knuckle on the edge of the ironing board. And the pinger goes. Then my little boy pokes his sleepy head round the door and asks for juice. And in comes the young master all scruffy and lovely and 16. "T shirt's smoking Lizzie". I looked down. It was. Damn. He was laughing. I laughed too. But the awful thought stayed. Okay, she thought I'm going to pursue this, but I'm going to do it my way. (What other way you silly woman?) First of all she realised that she had to admit that she felt as if she was soaked through to her jeans. I need to get these changed and sharpish. Four year old in front of the television, step-son on MSN, husband due in a little over an hour. Time for a quick bath and some reflection on this very strange epiphany. Yes, she thought. Very strange. In the bath then, stretched out, relaxed, warm, safe. Do I really want this? What has made me so incredibly lubricated? The thought of controlling him? Of getting him to... do things? Of making him allow me to do things? Oh God, this is too much. Her fingers slid fabulously into her cunt. Where has it all come from? Have I always been like this? Wanting to control. The word leaped out of the void and shocked her through and through as she came convulsively and splashily. Very heavily. I want to dominate him. She shuddered, cupped her breasts, crossed her legs, a million broken images of him - somehow, not clearly, not defined yet, submissive. Submitting to her uncharted dominance. It was then that she knew. Then that she realised what she had to do. And as she gently came down from this oh so very different orgasm, this thought ran through her head. I love him very very dearly and he loves me. So I am going to make sure that whatever I make him into, this will never ever change. Never. And she smiled that cat smile - you know? The one with the cream? Yes, that one. And she soaped herself caressingly, savouring each new touch (she was new now after all) and she made her first plan. Tonight is the night I start. No more comfy jeans, no more trainers, no more accommodating sweats. I'm dressing tonight, I'm dressing for my man and I'm going to change his life. Starting now. Our lives. Drying herself and looking into the mirror, wondering. No need to wonder now sweetheart, she thought, the body's way good enough. It's the brain that's leading this seduction. What then? What to wear? Mustn't be tooo over the top and I don't quite know why this is the first step, me dressing up. Maybe to raise the temperature a bit? Men are so much more... malleable - biddable is such a nice word isn't it - when they are aroused. So, the slinky tube dress, the second skin dress - from neck to ankle. Well from breast to ankle. Not too much, not too little. Trying it on she discovered her tummy was very slightly more than it might be. But she looked good, very good. I look good. Completely covered but completely revealed. Shoes. Heels? Again, suddenly, it hit her... I'll go barefoot, but I'll paint my nails. No underwear. I hope the teenager doesn't come in his Y fronts (again) she giggled and looked at the pretty red hair between her legs as she applied the nail varnish. Slightly darker pink instead of her usual pale choice. That ought to get his attention. Hair shining (her pride and joy) the electricity flowing through her could have lit up the Manhattan sky line. Quick pluck of the eye brows. Ouch! That hurt and, she felt it between her legs. Between her lips actually. And another simple fact dropped conveniently into place. Pain is pleasure... in the right circumstances of course. And she paused, her hand holding the tweezers in mid air. And looked at herself. Oh my, Lizzie, where are you going? And very deliberately and wanting to feel the shudder inside her slippery cunt once more, she selected an errant hair and pulled it slowly out. Feeling the mini explosion rip through her insides as she studied her new self and watched the nasty hair detach itself with a dreadful and inevitable pain. She closed her eyes with the ecstasy of it. Oh God, let me do this to him. Let me make him want it. Let me do it... whether he wants it or not... "I'm hungry Lizzie!!!!" says the adorable teenager. "I want fish fingers and those little round things Mum". Says the bewilderingly vague four year old. I can do this. I can feed the multitude of baby bird mouths all squeaking and otherwheres alert and I can focus as I never have before on my man when he comes through the door. And lo... he appears. Still charming, still good looking, still very very sexy, still affectionate. What AM I thinking about?!!! Resolve Elizabeth, keep shivering. Focus. Hello darling... you look um... vaguely... what's the word? Sensational? Yes. That'll do it. What's the occasion? I smile and slide my sexual form intimately by him as he leans against the door jam. Nothing really, just happy to be in love. You mean you weren't yesterday? In the sweats? Pouting, I turn and kiss him... Okay honey, no more sweats right? What do I get in return? Hmmmm? Eye brow raised properly. (The freshly PLUCKED eye brow please note). Veuve Cliquot? Bring it on darling, let's celebrate! Celebrate? Celebrate what? Oh, I don't know... us? Same-ness? Longevity? New-ness? Change? The experimental method? (Careful, not too rushy, don't get ahead of yourself). Here, have you already been at the bottle? How much catching up do I have to do? No!!! Nothing - really. Just feeling a bit... you know happy. Bursting. Something. Time of the month? I'm away for a shower, stick the shampoo in the freezer will you? Nice nails by the way. Darker than usual huh? That's him. He notices things. What's not to love? Dress isn't too shabby either. Over his shoulder. Supper over, diminutive one supplied with round things and now asleep, The Teenager back on MSN, us on sofa with two flutes of VC. Man in sweats (!) now and visible erection tenting same. My hand inside there. You don't mind me doing this then? I feel you shivering a bit. Are you chilly? Not chilly darling. Just um shivery. It's a bit like you're making this last a long time. On purpose. It's nice. Yes. Yes what? Yes nothing sweetheart. Just yes. What do you mean - just yes? Oh I don't know, who started this anyway? You did. It was you/ / Well I can stop if you don't like it Mister Man. Maybe you'd like to take over? Hmm? I like it better when you do it. Well obviously not if you want me to stop so you can take over. Seriously, let me watch you. You like watching me don't you? No darling/ No??? You DON'T like me getting all wet and sliding in and out of myself? Yes of course I do but that isn't what I meant. I don't really think you know what you mean do you darling. Just forget about it siwwy. Forget about it? What?!! Um, what about this. What about what darling? This this... what you've done to me. I tell you what, why don't we take these glasses up to bed? Hmm? Then you can stroke yourself while I watch. And, if you're a very good boy, I'll lick it off you too. Hmm? How can you refuse me? (I always find batting my eyelids works well at times like this). He's gone. He's running for the stairs. I think he likes me being a slut now and then. I follow, smiling wickedly, carrying the champagne. And I douse the lights. Maybe a little more slut means a little less balance. That imbalance likely tipping away from the lord and master of the house. Little does he know. I think I'm going to enjoy this. Slut first, to trap him. Teacher later, to lead him. He's on the bed, naked, erect and playing with himself gently. Hey!! You! Stop that right now! (This is pretty easy so far). You might at least wait for the audience to settle. He lets go and it stands there all hot and waiting. I turn to place my flute on the dresser and slip the whole long tubular sexy dress thing right off over my head in one go. I sit on the stuffed chair, one leg draped over the soft right arm. Gaping open. I have a small small cunt, very sweet and pink. And tight. Go ahead sweetheart, you may begin to please me now. Entertain me. Okay? I'm sure he must find this quite odd - my behaviour - I've never done this before, though it seems to be coming quite naturally. It also seems to be having the right effect, judging by the tumescence. Slowly darling, don't just be a wham bam thank you mam. It's greedy. In fact stop right now and spread your legs so I can see your ass hole. He does! He must at least like this a bit I'm thinking. I trail my fingers towards my slitty cunt. My slutty cunt! Go ahead you little wanker. Show me what you've got. Maybe it's the champagne, or maybe it's my pinky finger nails disappearing in and out of my juicy cunt, maybe it's the unusualness of me telling him what to do. But he's doing it. He's doing what I tell him. That's for sure. How positively delicious! I can see him straining and his hand is moving faster. He's about to come. WAIT! Please? Stop for me darling - just a minute please. I want to top up my glass. He stops (wow!) and lies there, twitching, in the air. I think you like this don't you sweet man. Do you like this? This entertaining your wife? God yes. Please let me finish for you. (There's obviously the merest hint of an element of submissiveness here. Wouldn't you say?). Okay darling, thank you for waiting. Now then this is what your audience wants - alright? Just as you are about to pop off, I want you to let go of that lovely cock and let me watch it squirt out all over your belly all by itself. Will that be alright with you? (It's the fluttering eyelids again, well that and the fingers in the pinky cunt sliding in and out I suppose). Yes yes, please let me get on with it. It doesn't take long. He groans, lets go and a small fountain of milky sperm flies (quite far actually) out and up and on to him. He shivers and shakes a little. What a good boy. That was utterly beautiful. Thank you. Now then, here's your reward. And I lean down and look him in the eye as I lick and suck and vacuum all the lovely warm salty tart juice into my mouth and down my throat. Alternating criminally between man juice and champagne. Well, not exactly all of it. Would you like to try some darling? It's very nice. What?! That's disgusting. I meant the champagne sweetie, but if you'd really like some spunk I've saved some for you specially, here it is... and anyway what's so disgusting about it? You don't seem to mind me eating it... Don't be daft. Men don't eat sperm. Oh! I see. Women do and men don't huh? What about all those delightful homosexualists then? Don't they ingest the odd soupcon? Well yes, maybe. But they're not real men. And anyway, I'm not a homo. George Michael isn't a real man? Alexander the Great? How about Rock Hudson? Johnny Mathis? John Gielgud? Come on, here, look it's a teeny tiny droplet on the end of my finger. I've already consumed gallons of it - well not tonight of course, you don't produce gallons - why don't you try a little of it? Hmmm? Scared? And anyway. (My middle finger pulls back from his lips) What's this shit from Mr. Liberal Huh? HOMO? Since when did you become prejudiced? Homo? You need to check out Seinfeld honey. "NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT!!!!!" What would Anthony think hmmm? If I told him what you said? Julia might not be that impressed either. Are you a closet homo... phobe? Honey? Is that what you are? A secret queer basher? Hmmm? Is this the liberal man I thought I married? Or a nasty nasty skin-head queer basher? OOoooH! Now I get it. I know I'm not very clever, you know that... and I really don't mind. Really. I'll always love you darling, but if there's something so deeply hidden you need to tell me, you know, about your sexuality, but you just can't bring yourself to tell me...don't be frightened - you can tell me. Really. But listen, if this is how you are, all the protestation in the world, all the denial you can invent, I don't mind. I love you. So come on angel tell me. No? Well just taste it. For me. For Lizzie. Hmmm? I can hardly keep a straight face. I'm like poor little Dudley Moore trying not to laugh with Peter Cook. I'm making this up as I go along and it's sooo working.!!! Comes the tease, comes the riposte!!!!! (Best described as "splutter") Hee hee! Lizzie, where is all this coming from? I'm not homosexual, I don't have secret needs to want men. Why are you saying this? I just want you. I just want you to be happy. Haven't I always? It's just a silly drunken sexy thought sweetheart. I just thought (there's a heap of semi pouting happening now) that since I'm always the one who eats all the spunk, you might like to see what I like about it so much. I mean, after all, you know I taste myself sometimes. Don't you? Come on. You never know. You might like it. I like how I taste...maybe you'll like how you taste. Here, stick your tongue out. And stop being a baby. I know you don't want to suck men's cocks darling, I only want you to taste what's so nice about you. Out comes the merest tip of the hesitant manly tongue!!! Oh NO!!! Stop, don't do it. My God!!! We're all going to die. My husband is about to taste his own sperm because it turns his wife on to watch him. For goodness sake darling... you're not secretly producing ricin are you? That Nice Mr. Bush is going to send people to see you I suspect...probably that Nice Mr. Rumsfeld, or that Nice Mr. Cheney. They look like men who eat cum don't they. Come on siwwy, try it. He does it. He pokes the tip of his tongue out. More out. I put the tiny blob (well, let's be honest here, quite a big glob actually) of cooling pearly goop on the tip of that tongue and erm "accidentally" wipe the corner of his lips. Now he'll have to swallow and lick himself, or lick himself first and then have more to lick off afterwards. He chooses the former and human autonomic systems being what they are, has to swallow before he licks himself. (Well you try leaving do-nut sugar on your lips without licking them and swallowing!) Do you know what I like? Have I ever told you this before? I like it when you squeeze my nipples. How does it taste? I know that, I like it. (He does like to please me doesn't he.) See? You like it! Sperm is sooo lovely isn't it. I was sure you'd like it! Yay!!! I meant I like squeezing your nipples. Not the sperm. And I'm not sure I like it at all. Stop twisting my words around. It tastes salty. A bit like a sloes. Tart and drying. Not really sure I like it much at all. Ah well, when you are pleasing your man darling, it's the combination of pride in your accomplishment at having him squirt all over your face and down your throat and the taste is the proof that he likes what you are doing to him. Cos only one thing tastes like a hard hot man sweetheart and that's the taste in your throat right now. I love it. But if you're not sure about it we can always practice again tomorrow night. Do you know what else I like? I like how tiny you get after coming for me. He moves to cover himself. And looks a bit worried. What do you mean "tiny" ? (So un-manned he didn't comment on the practice session tomorrow!!!) No no. Just lie there. I don't mean it unkindly, but well look at it. See? It's tiny. And pathetic. Defenceless. I feel all protective and responsible for it afterwards. Kind of in charge of it so I can look after it. Properly. It's very sweet all little and floppy isn't it. You don't mind me being in charge of it do you? When it's all little silly? What's going on Lizzie? What do you mean "What's going on?" I'm just telling you how much I love your little cock... When it's all post orgasm and useless. It's sweet. Useless?! It's not useless. It's just well you know, resting. And anyway, that's not what I mean and you know it. What's happened to you? Why are you suddenly being like this? Why are you telling me how nice it is for me to eat sperm. I don't eat sperm. I never have. Being like what darling? Loving you? Showing you how pretty my tight little cunt is while you wank yourself on to your chest? And besides, you do eat sperm. You just enjoyed your first man juice honey. Oh I'm getting sooo wet for you - even though there's not much you can do with that little thing right now. What if I ask you to lick me? You know you like THAT. Come on honey, pleeeeease? I'm gagging for it - I really need to come and your tongue is soooo good. Or do you mean that silly argument about eating sperm? I could understand if I'd asked you to suck off the plumber who was here this morning - that would be just a little tooo adventurous don't you think? A bit too advanced? Especially as his trousers seemed awfully full for a man supposed to be concentrating on that leaky boiler. Come on darling, you know how good you are with that tongue. I'm on my back. His head is between my thighs. I have the back of his head in my hands. His hair is so soft and silky. What? Well, it may have been because I was just back from Julia's for coffee and you know how much she fancies me. And you know I like to tease her. It makes me feel very sexy to be wanted like that. No, don't stop, it's too nice to stop. So anyway, I was wearing my stockings cos she likes the ooooh yes, that's so nice. Because she likes the lumps that metal clasps make in my skirt. That pencil skirt with the slit up the front. The one you like so much. I'm sure she can barely keep her hands off me. Oh! My God! You are soooo good at this. Does it turn you on thinking about me flirting with Julia? Wearing stockings for her? It's all innocent sweety. You know that. It's cock I like, not women. Well I might think about it sometimes. And I pinch my nipples very very HARD. With my nails. And I'm coming. I'm coming in great heaving secret waves. I'm flushed bright red across my face and neck and chest. I hold his face to my cunt and then just have to push him away. Too too sensitive for more. I'm going to start pinching his nipples when he comes now. Well, tomorrow anyway. For now he's snuggled up under my arm and I can oh my! I can feel his bulge against my thigh. Humping me. He wants me! All this talk of flirting with Julia and the plumber get you a little excited sweety? (There was no plumber today - he called to say he couldn't make it). You flirted with the plumber? (I thought that might get his attention). No darling. Well not really. I mean teasing Julia is one thing and it does get me a little hot. Well, hot and wet I suppose. But when a real man is in the house. No no, don't get all silly while I'm telling you how attractive your wife is - really! What do you think I am? A slut who flaunts her stockings at the workmen? Oh my God!!!!! His cock twitched. Leave it, Leave it alone. Later. Save this for later. Yes, I know you're a real man. Of course you are. Who's sperm did I eat today hmm? Mine? Yes. Exactly. Yours. And I licked it off you too remember? No-one else's then? What? Why on earth would I lick anyone else's sperm honey? They'd have to produce some first. And then I'd have to be near them - well I suppose I'd be very near them wouldn't I if I was about to lick their hot cum off my fingers. But really, it would be too too gross to lick a plumber don't you think? He was big mind. Quite good looking too. More like the type of man who'd shove it down your throat and just have his way with you rather than just cum all over your hand and face. (That twitch again.) A real man, a man who knows what he wants and gets it quickly. So he can get back to his work. (Again!... I wonder, does he know he's so obviously revealing himself? Erm... but what IS he revealing?) Would you like to fuck me darling? You would? I like it when we make love, but sometimes a girl needs to be fucked. Hard. There, that's lovely. Now then, just so you know it's you I love and to show you nothing happened, I'll be honest about the plumber. No really. Nothing happened at all. Nothing like what you're thinking anyway. Well what were you thinking then? Oh. I see. You mean if it was nothing like what you were thinking, then it must have been something else. Well maybe it was what you were thinking. Were you thinking he was looking at the backs of my stockings? At the seams as they disappear beneath the hem of my skirt? The ones that get Julia so desperate? Well, yes, he may have been when I was putting the groceries away with my back to him. Up on the high shelves. Stretching up a bit. Now I think about it, I wondered why he didn't ask to help me.He was on the kitchen floor you see. Half on his back half under the kitchen sink. Turnin off the mains. Gosh! I suppose he must have been able to erm see nearly all the way to my knickers. Good job I had some on isn't it. Don't tell me you were imagining something more you horny man. How very saucy of you. Were hoping perhaps that he touched me? That I wanted him to touch me with his hard manly hands? You know, a bit of rough on the kitchen cabinet? Sitting on the edge of it with my legs spread open, pulling his bulge out of his trousers? (Now I have to admit that the instances of him getting an erection twice within an evening are few, but here he is pouring forth his semen into my cunt like a teenager (no silly, not THAT teenager!). Cumming like a train for the second time in less than an hour! I wonder if it's anything I'm saying to him!!!!!) So since they were there, I mean right there in front of me and it was interesting to see what his reaction would be, I started to suckle on his nipples. Quite hard. While he was cumming. And while I was biting him and listening to him moan each time I nipped a little too hard and while I was enjoying him squirting away inside me and squeaking at each bite, I was thinking about that twitch. Those twitches in fact. And the fictitious plumber. The presently fictitious plumber? Oh my...