Bureau De Change free porn video

I reread the last letter and put it on the top of the pile. Twenty-two love letters written to my father over thirty years ago by a woman who was not my mother. They started friendly, a bit formal even, in the early days of their illicit relationship. But after he’d fucked her, they were full of her passion for him, then later her worry for the child he’d made her pregnant with, and finally her despair when he abandoned her to stay with my mother. I could see from the dates on the letters this other woman was pregnant at the same time as my mother was carrying me. Tricky Dicky was living up to his nickname.

“You were a cunt, Dad. A fucking cunt. But you always knew that, didn’t you?” My words bounced off the walls of his living room as I waited for his ghost to answer. He’d been dead a week, so his spectral self must be up and around. Although, it would be ironic if the man who was missing from so much of my life should be present in his afterlife.

I remembered our last phone call and how I’d phoned the hospice afterward just to check he was there and not pulling some stunt. Tricky Dicky had form. Why should he not lie about his death?

I went to see him before the end. The strapping six-foot-four man, with a shock of black hair and handsome looks that led his dick into trouble, had been reduced by cancer to a thin, bald, dried-up husk. All I could think as I looked at him was Gollum’s big brother. He was genuinely happy to see me. Cried even.

“Thank you for coming, son. I wanted to do something for you before I check out. I want to leave you the house and contents. Do what you like with it. Sell it and buy somewhere that will give you happier memories. My solicitor’s details are on this card. You just have to agree to be my executor. I don’t think your mum would want to do it.” The effort of holding the card out to me was making his hand tremble, and I took it before he dropped it. He smiled. “Must be worth at least half a million even in the state it’s in. I wish my dad had given me such a present.”

I stared hard. “Thanks. But I’d trade it all to have had a father that was there when mum and I needed him. But that was a gift you were not prepared to give us. A last act of contrition does not wipe your slate clean, Dad.”

He started crying, and I let him go until the sobbing got louder and ended in a hacking cough. I pulled a tissue from the box on his bedside cabinet. “Here you are, and wipe that snot bubble. It makes you look like a baby.”

We made small talk, and I nodded as he wittered on remembering family outings; good times I had no memory of. I wondered if the cancer had reached his brain. But we are all heroes of our own story, aren’t we? If the facts don’t fit, we just ignore them. In the end, I shook his hand and kissed him on his clammy forehead and left. We both knew we would not meet again.

*

So here I was, two weeks later, sitting at his desk and taking care of business. A few last bequests sorted, and I was looking down my nose at the remains of his life, wondering if there was anything I would want to keep as a reminder of the man who walked out when I was eight.

I blame it on those antique programmes that fill daytime TV. Why else would I have checked the joints and underside of the drawers to confirm the writing bureau was a genuine antique and not a reproduction? Then I was off, looking for secret compartments, and I found two. One with bank account details, including confirmation he’d closed it ten years ago. The other containing twenty-two love letters. The bastard had pulled his last stroke, leaving me with the problem of what to do with them.

My initial thought was to burn them. They should go up in flames along with his body. But then I saw the heartbreak and distress of the other woman, and I thought I owed her something. Closure is too American a term for me. Perhaps an understanding. I wanted her to know he was a lousy father, and she was better off without him in her life. I told myself it was for her benefit; it was just a bonus it was another way for me to punish him. I put the letters in my messenger bag and took a last look around the place. I’d put it on with the estate agent next week. They’d advised me to clear the house first, but I’d get around to that. I just wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. I pulled the front door closed. I would not be coming back.

I’d been busy catching up on work I’d let slide while I’d dealt with Richard’s funeral and the aftermath. Freelance graphic designers don’t get compassionate leave, so I’d pulled a couple of all-nighters to get back on track. The letters were forgotten, and I stumbled across them a couple of days later as I searched for something else in my bag, and thought my idea of contacting the writer after thirty-seven years was ridiculous. They were saved by my faulty shredder. I tried the first one but as usual, the machine was gummed up so I took it out of its envelope to make it easier. That reminded me of the address, and curiosity made me Google it and bring up a street view. The houses surrounding the 1930s semi showed evidence of recent renovation, but the one I was interested in seemed untouched since the 1980s. Could the writer still be living there? I checked one of the property websites, which showed no sales activity on the property in the last twenty years. Invested now, I checked the electoral register which showed the same female name for almost forty years. I could not throw the letters away when they could be the property of June Watson.

I had no phone number for the house; besides, it was the sort of thing you had to deal with face to face. I would go to the house and say who I was and offer to return some correspondence she might have written. I would leave it to her to decide what to do with them.

*

The following day I stood on the doorstep visualizing a grey-haired lady not too dissimilar from my mother. I was surprised when the door opened.

“Hello, can I help you?” The brown-haired woman looked to be in her mid-thirties, although I’m lousy with women’s ages. She was slim and had an attractive face, were it not currently screwed up watching a strange man with suspicion.

“I’m sorry, I was expecting June Watson. This is her house, isn’t it?” I hoped my weak smile did not make me look like a salesman or a Jehovah's Witness.

“My mother died six months ago. What is your business with her?” She tensed up.

I realized how stupid my idea was. “I’m sorry to hear that. You have my condolences. It’s just that I er… I bought a bureau at a house clearance sale and I found some letters your mother had written in a secret compartment. I wanted to give them back to her and tell her the person she wrote to was also recently deceased.” She gave me an odd look. “Sorry, I sound like a lunatic. Sorry to have bothered you, I’ll be off.” I turned on the path.

“No, you won’t!” Her hand on my shoulder was firm, and she turned me around. She was closer than I expected and we collided. I reached out to stop her from tripping and ended up with my hands on her hips, face to face. She gasped. I could not find words. Physical contact had caught us unawares and heightened our reactions to being in close proximity. I had not had a girlfriend since Holly left three years ago, so the entire experience was strange.

I met her gaze, and my mouth worked again. “The letters are of an intimate nature. You won’t want to think of your mother differently.” If there were better words, I could not find them.

Her eyes opened wide. “Who the hell are you are? And let go of me. I demand you give me those letters.” She pushed my hands off her hips and held her hand out for me to hand them over.

I opened my messenger bag. “Can I just ask you one thing? Do you have an older sister?”

In that moment, the implications of what I said registered with her, and her legs gave way. I caught her in time, my hands around her waist and her one arm around my neck. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to shock you. Can I help you inside? I’ll explain everything I know.”

She nodded and allowed me to lead her into the kitchen and sit her at the table. She started crying. “I always knew, but mum never explained. She would not tell me what she and dad argued about and why she did not make more of a fuss when he left. Said I was a kid and would not understand. She avoided the conversation for the rest of her life.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

“I’m sorry to have distressed you, Ms…” I took her hand. There was a sensation about touching this woman I could not explain.

“Good god. You don’t even know my name. I’m Catherine Watson, June’s only daughter.” She looked down at her hand in mine but did not remove it. Did she have the same feeling?

“I’m Lawrence Matthews. Like I said, I came across your mother's letters in an old bureau I bought at an auction and thought she might want them back. It’s not the sort of thing you can say over the phone. I’d be suspicious if someone contacted me with such a story.”

“Can I see the letters?” Catherine asked.

I pulled the pack out of my bag and offered her the first one.

Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my god. That is mum’s handwriting. The date on the franking says November 1981. Why is she writing to a post office box?”

“Ms. Watson, the man she wrote to, was married. I think he took precautions not to have letters turn up at his home.” I could not look her in the eye.

“Have you read them all, Lawrence?” She felt the weight of the correspondence.

“They broke my heart, Catherine. Save yourself the pain. Let me take them with me. Pretend the last fifteen minutes never happened.” I went to get up, but she gripped my hand.

“No, you don’t. Mum’s dead but her story’s not over. I’ve had this stuck feeling ever since she passed. I have to know so I can move on.”

“Okay, Catherine. That is your right.” I got up to leave.

“Lawrence, can I take your number? I may want to speak to someone about this. I don’t think I can face the rest of the family.”

“Of course.” I took her phone and dialed mine. It buzzed in my pocket. She smiled.

This time she let me stand. “It was a very considerate thing you did. Let me thank you on behalf of my mother.” She stood and shook my hand. But then she leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

I felt myself redden. She saw me to the door and waved me goodbye. I dreaded turning around as a reached the corner, in case she was watching me.

I sat on the Tube replaying our encounter. I had mentally prepared to meet her mother, and I was going to explain myself so she could put to an end her memories of my father. Meeting Catherine scuppered that. My overpowering memory was the warmth of her skin. The weight of her body against mine. Her hair against my cheek. Then reluctantly, the fact she was my half-sister. I could not feel revulsion for my sensual thoughts. All I had now was a profound sense of loss that I would never see her again.

Two days later Catherine phoned. “I thought if I spoke to you Lawrence, I could stop crying,” she sniffed.

“And how is that going?” I asked. She started bawling again.

“I have to get through this Lawrence. I was hoping you could help me?”

“In what way?” My antennae were rising.

“I was hoping you could find out from the auctioneers, where the bureau came from. I want to see the house and get a feel for who my real father was. Then I can put this to bed. Will you help me?”

A thousand contradictory emotions went through my head. My reaction at hearing her voice told me how much I’d missed her, and my mind was racing ahead at the possibilities of seeing her again. But a tiny common-sense voice was telling me it was a bad idea. If she was to find out who I really was, she’d think my interest in her was creepy.

“Let me see what I can do. If the place is up for sale, we might get a viewing as potential buyers,” I said.

“That’s a good idea, Lawrence. We could pretend to be a loved-up couple buying their first home together. We might have to be a bit touchy-feely, if you could stand that?”

Common sense didn’t stand a chance. I swallowed hard. “I’ll let you know when we’ve got an appointment.”

*

That bloody desk was heavy, and I was sure I could hear the old bastard laughing at me from below as I dragged it into the garage and hid it under a blanket. I piled a couple of boxes of books on top for good measure and gave the house a quick once over to make sure there was nothing linking to me. I thought I’d done a good job, but then I spotted the drag marks on the carpet leading to the hallway door to the garage. They were bound to raise suspicion. I vacuumed the carpets to cover my tracks. All through my subterfuge, I was thinking, ‘I am my father’s son.’

I knew Catherine wanted to put a face to the object of her mother’s letters, so I obliged her by finding a photo of the old man in cricket whites at a works social. It was a professional shot. Black and white, with the rest of the team surrounding him while he received a cup. The typed note pasted to the back said, ‘Richard Evans, team captain receives the trophy for winning the ICI interplant cricket tournament 1986.’ My heart stopped for a minute and then I thanked God mum had returned to her maiden name when she divorced him. I put it in a spare frame and placed it on the sideboard. Tricky Dicky always took a good photo. You could see why he didn’t have trouble getting women. I wished he’d passed that trait on to his son. When Catherine saw what a wrong ‘un he was, she’d sympathize with her mother’s plight and put a lid on the matter. At least that is what I hoped.

My phone alarm went off fifteen minutes before I was supposed to meet Catherine with the estate agent. I had not put the house on the market yet, so there was no way that couldn’t happen. I’d channelled my father to come up with a plausible excuse and made my call.

“Hello, Catherine. Slight problem. The estate agents’ kid had had an accident at nursery and she had to go off. I said we couldn’t reschedule, so she let me have the keys on a promise I return them straight afterwards. Come straight to the house. I’ll text you the address.”

“Well played, Lawrence. I’d like to look around without an agent breathing down my neck. Pity though, I was looking forward to playing your pushy girlfriend.” Catherine laughed.

My heart was pounding. The excitement of an illicit meeting, the fear of being caught out. Is this what my father lived for?

I let her in. I fumbled with the worn lock. You had to know how to catch it just right to open it. As a stranger, I should not have that skill.

Hello, Catherine. Bloody lock. The new owner will need to get this fixed.” With my nerves, I didn’t look at her until she came in. Then wow. She took off her coat and was wearing a fitted wrap-over dress in a clingy material. My eyes were drawn to her shapely breasts and the curve of her thighs. She was also wearing makeup and her hair was held in a low ponytail. I realized I’d been quiet for a good five seconds and went red. “Sorry, Catherine.”

She laughed. “It’s supposed to do that. I thought the agent might have been a man, and I wanted to make him obliging.”

“Where do you want to start?” I had to take my eyes off her.

“Can I just wander about to get a feel?” She scanned the hallway as if to commit the details to memory.

I was feeling nervous I’d missed something incriminating.

“I wonder where he used to meet my mum?” Catherine said. “I mean, she was married; he was married. He couldn’t bring her here.”

“He probably had a car. Or used a mate’s place. Or a hotel. It might not have been the romantic relationship your mum’s letters suggested. I’m sorry, Catherine.”

She looked at me. There was a tear in the corner of her eye. “You’re right, Lawrence. Why can’t women accept sex for what it is? Why do they have to romanticize it and end up disappointed?”

I wanted to put my arms around her and kiss her. “It’s the way it was before the internet. Now they send half-naked pictures to each other before the first date. So they know what they’re getting.”

She laughed. “Men must love that.”

“Not all men. Some want to discover the person first.” I held her gaze, and she reddened and looked away embarrassed.

The kitchen held little imprint of my father. I struggled to remember him cooking more than beans on toast, and then under sufferance. We went through the upstairs rooms and she opened his wardrobe. A collection of smart but old-fashioned suits hung in plastic bags.

“He must have been dapper in his day. Quite a stylish character,” said Catherine.

I didn’t want her to be impressed by him. “Looks like he was a bit of a peacock, if you ask me. Why would a family man need all these fancy clothes, if not to impress other women?” I hoped I was coming across casual rather than bitter.

“Do you think he cheated on his wife after he finished with my mum?”

“He probably had the taste for it. Couldn’t stop himself. Today some doctors want to treat sex addiction as an illness. I think in his day it was a sport.”

We browsed the bathroom and spare bedroom and were about to head downstairs when she spotted my childhood bedroom. I had not looked in there. My palms were sweating.

Catherine pushed the door open. “Oh. He had a son.”

The room looked abandoned, because it was. After their divorce, I spent many desultory alternate weekends with dad. He spent most of the time complaining about mum’s unreasonableness and how difficult it was to keep the house and find the money for the deposit on her bungalow. I reminded him it was my home as well, and he gave me a sour look. He tried to interrogate me about any men who might visit. ‘You only have two uncles, Laurie. Any more are something else.’ I told mum, and she levelled with me. ‘Your father wants to know if I have a lover, so he can stick him for some of his maintenance burden.’

I realized I must have drifted, and when I came too, Catherine had opened the wardrobe. “His son was in the Scouts.”

My heart was in my mouth. She was looking at a Blue Tacked photo of me in uniform with the rest of the troop.

“I think they are the Beavers. Younger than Scouts.”

“Were you one, Lawrence? I wonder which one is his son?” She ran her finger over the photo of the ten boys.

I thought I would shout out from the picture. I had to distract her. “Kids change so much at that age. He probably looks nothing like that anymore.” But I did. My hair covered my sticky-out ears these days, but the eyes, nose, and mouth were me.

“You’re probably right. I hope he had a nice life.” Catherine closed the wardrobe door and a 10,000-pound weight came off my chest. “Let’s look downstairs. Perhaps there’s a picture of my dad.”

We arrived in the living room where she discovered the photo from the cricket match. She pulled a pair of black glasses out of her bag. “Don’t laugh” she said. She put them on.

“You look like a sexy librarian.” Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? I was useless at this stuff. Not my father’s son at all. I squirmed in embarrassment.

Catherine pulled the tie out of her hair and shook her head. “And now Lawrence?”

“Now you just look sexy. I’m going to get a glass of water. Would you like one?” I turned and headed for the kitchen, just avoiding tripping over my tongue.

I came back with two glasses to find her looking at her phone. “I took a photo of the photo so I can see better.” I had not thought of that. She was using the magnifier app to study the old man’s face. “I think I’ve got his eyes and mouth.”

“Your hair is lighter.”

“I’ve been dying it for years. I think his is the same colour as yours. What do you think?”

I was sure she was going to confront me. “It’s a black-and-white photo. You can’t tell.”

“I’ve worked out how they met from the inscription. Mum used to work for a builder’s merchants. I think he sold paint for ICI.” Catherine had the old man bang to rights. His sales patch was South East England. He’d be away for days at a time. Ideal for a man with his hobbies. “I wonder what happened to his family? I mean, we are relatives.”

What the fuck? Was she going to ask me to help find myself? It had all gone horribly wrong. “You were very shocked when I told you. His wife may not be alive. His son might not want painful old wounds reopened.” I hoped I sounded considered rather than defensive, but I was out of my depth.

“Maybe you’re right, Lawrence. I should leave it here. Thank you for helping me find some answers.” She leaned over and I was expecting a kiss on the cheek. Instead, she kissed me full on the lips. My arms went around her waist. It was all I could do not to slip my tongue into her mouth. We stood awkwardly in the embrace, waiting for the next move. Just like we had the last time. “I’d like to thank you properly for your help.”

My eyes were as wide as saucers.

She laughed. “Not like that. I’d like to cook you a meal. Unless you would prefer to go out to dinner?”

“No, that would be lovely.”

“Good. Tuesday evening at my place. Is it a date?”

I nodded. I could not trust my mouth with words.

*

I turned into her road, trying to sort my scrambled thoughts. It was not meant to go this far. I was just going to be a good Samaritan for her mother. But when I saw Catherine, it all changed. I could not refuse her. I wanted to tell her the truth, that we were related. She was my half-sister, for god’s sake. But the feelings I had for her can’t be all wrong, can they? I’d Googled endless articles on forbidden love between blood relatives. What the fuck do they know? As long as we don’t have kids, the only problems are moral aren’t, they? Other people’s morality. I would tell her. I would have to tell her before the inevitable happened. We were attracted to each other. It was natural. I would tell her and it would break my heart. And hers too, if I was reading things right.

I pressed the bell, as nervous as hell. Catherine opened the door, and I presented the bunch of flowers I’d been strangling all the way from the station. She looked at them and laughed. The sound made my heart soar. I could not tell her.

She was wearing a sleeveless glittery black dress with spaghetti straps. It showed off her honey-coloured arms and shoulders. The old man had Mediterranean heritage, and it had passed down the line. More in her than me, although I did tan super fast, and it lasted ages. I followed her down the hall, trying not to stare at her arse and legs in dark tights and black high heels. I was glad I’d worn a proper shirt, trousers, and shoes for a change.

“Do you like my earrings?” Catherine said over her shoulder.

“Er… sure. They’re nice.”

She laughed. She knew where I’d been looking.

The kitchen was a collage of mouthwatering smells.

“Dinner will be an hour, I’m slow cooking a piece of lamb. A Sicilian recipe.” She poured us two glasses from an open bottle and we moved into the lounge. A record was playing on an old record player/ radio combination, from back in the day when Hi-Fi equipment was furniture. Dad had a similar setup. Catherine picked up a vinyl LP. “Do you know the same record is in Dad’s house?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said the same record is in my Dad’s house.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice.” Did I imagine what she said the first time? Guilt plays havoc with the senses.

“Do you think they had a song? My mum and Richard Evans?” She lifted the record sleeve up.

I had to look at it over her shoulder. My lips were inches from her bare shoulder. Her perfume was in my nose. I put my hands in my pockets before they got me into trouble.

“I don’t know, but there’s his theme tune, ‘Music to watch girls by’.”

“You’ve really got it in for him, Lawrence. Is it just because of what he did to my mum? Did you find anything to suggest he’d been like that with other women?” Catherine looked at me.

This was the moment to come clean, to admit who I was and to walk away from her. I was a coward. “No. It’s just good-looking blokes seem to have it all, and don’t realize the value. Let’s not talk about him anymore. His ghost has been over us long enough. I want to know about you.”

We continued our life stories over an excellent meal.

“You know most of mine, Lawrence. What you don’t know is that I was married for five years. It was not a good marriage. When mum got early Alzheimer’s, I said I would not put her in a home. It was a convenient point for Steve to jump ship and I waved him goodbye. I moved in here with her for the last two years. Work was very good about it. I could work from home when I needed to.”

“I’m sorry to hear about the marriage. What do you do for a living?”

“You got it right before. I’m a sexy librarian.” Catherine smiled, and I spluttered into my glass. “Actually, I’m a knowledge officer for a consultancy company. When you think about it, their only asset is know-how. I capture the learnings from our engagements so we can use what works again, ideally with cheaper staff. Although the clients don’t get that benefit.”

“I know your work. I sometimes get jobs where a company is pitching or delivering findings to clients. People don’t want to read, so a picture goes a long way. I started off as a graphic designer, but I’m doing a lot of infographics these days. Animated ones for TV and corporate events as well.”

“Wow. I’m amazed we have not come across each other, Lawrence.”

Catherine was beautiful and smart. What were the odds I would find someone like her in real life? “London is a big place. People cross every day and never meet.

“I’m glad we did. From your opinion of Richard Evans, I assume you don’t have a wife or girlfriend you’ve escaped from this evening? Or are you the biggest player in London?”

“Damn, I’ve been rumbled,” I joked. “The answer is no on either count. My fiancé Holly left three years ago. The vacancy remains unfilled.”

“I’m sorry, it sounds painful.” Catherine wanted to know, but gave me the option of refusing.

I was tired of lying to her. “It was. We’d been together five years. We were trying for a baby with no luck. I’d suggested IVF, but she was against. Besides, we didn’t have the money. Holly came up with a cheaper option. I came home early from a business trip that was supposed to last two days and found her in bed with my best friend.” I swallowed hard at the memory.

“How awful. I’m sorry, Lawrence. I should not have been so pushy.” Catherine’s hand was on mine. The other stroked my cheek.

“I’m okay now. I even apologized to my friend for breaking his nose. Holly’s, broken arm was from her falling out of the bed. I’m not a violent psycho.”

“That’s the last thing I’d call you, Lawrence.”

“I bumped into Gary a year later. He said he had some news if I kept my hands in my pockets. He said Holly made all the running; she said he’d be doing us a favour. She was very persuasive. She had two other boyfriends after me, but neither managed to knock her up. Seems that the problem was not with me.”

“Are kids important to you, Lawrence?”

“With the right person, Catherine. I’d even suggested to Holly that we adopt. It would be great to give a child a loving home.”

She picked up my hand and kissed it. There was a tear in her eye. “Come on. I want to dance with you to the songs of that old crooner.”

*

We managed one song before our lips were on each other. My hands were in her hair as I nibbled her earlobe. She sighed and undid my shirt. Her nails raked at my chest. When the only sounds we could make were sighs and moans, we took it upstairs.

I looked at the single bed. “I got so lonely in a double bed after I split from Steve.” Catherine apologized. She was nervous. I unzipped her dress, and it fell to the floor. I held her hand to step out of it and picked it up. “Tights are so unflattering, aren’t they? No wonder men want women to traipse around in stockings and suspenders.”

I looked at the front of my trousers tenting. “I think they are doing a good enough job.”

She laughed, and I lay her on the bed before she could find other faults.

I undid her black bra. Her breasts were large for her frame and cascaded into my eager hands. My mouth moved from one to the other. Her brown nipples stiffened. I kissed down her stomach and she pushed me back.

“No. You first Lawrence.” She made me stand and unzipped me. Before I could say anything, Catherine took me in her mouth and teased the underside of my cockhead with her tongue. I shook. She leaned forward, taking more of my cock in every dip until her lips touched my balls. I have never had a blow job like it. With her fingers behind my balls, she could feel my cum rising. “It’s okay, Lawrence. Let it go. All in my mouth. I want you to.”

I doubt I would have been able to do otherwise, and I shot five big spurts which Catherine swallowed without gagging. I lay her back on the bed.

“I hope you don’t think I’m a slut. It’s just that I don’t want to disappoint you.” She became teary, and I held her.

I sensed there was an issue, but I didn’t want to push it. “Let’s just cuddle for a while.”

Ten minutes later we were breathing hard again. “Please fuck me now, Lawrence.”

I threw back the duvet and pulled her tights and knickers down in one go. She’d trimmed her pussy to a designer stubble. She had pouty lips and a prominent clitoris. It couldn’t be a fear that she looked odd that was the problem. “You are beautiful down there, Catherine.” Before she could object, my face was between her thighs, my tongue raking her soaking cleft. She tensed up, but I splayed her legs and circled her clit with my tongue. She squirmed. “God Lawrence, I think I’m going to cum.” To guarantee the result, I slid two fingers into her pussy and found her G-Spot after a bit of searching. She gave me a clue. “Yes, there. Just there. You’ve got it from both ends. Oh my god, my god!” Catherine made an animal sound as she came. Part scream, part grunt. I’d never heard it’s like before. She rode my face. Holding my tongue on point with her hand on the back of my neck until she fell backwards, spent.

“You made me cum. You made me cum.” She was crying happy tears.

“I don’t think you’re finished, Catherine.” Her weak objections melted as I opened her thighs again. My left hand flashed across her clit as the right probed inside her pussy. Her hips bucked like she was trying to throw me from a saddle and she stiffened as she came again. The third time she was too far gone to complain as I slid my little finger into her bum hole and took her over the edge. Her legs snapped shut on my arm like a bear trap as she shuddered.

“No more please, Laurence. I think you’ll kill me.”

I don’t claim any studly skills, but there had to have been a problem in her past. Catherine lay in the fetal position, wiping her tears with the back of her hand and keeping an eye on mine lest I inflict more pleasure on her. “I don’t come during sex, Lawrence.”

“Well, that’s a lie.”

“No, I mean, in the past. I don’t know what itTo continue reading this story you must be a member. Join for FREE here.