Fine burrowing indeed, couldn’t ask for any better than that. Warm & snug. There may have been an anatomical aspect. Not surprisingly, it was relished even more on Yan’s side after that famished stretch of hers. Little doubt about the veracity. In the kampung it would have been impossible to find a partner and here the Bangla boys working the construction sites did not appeal. Positioning for entry, the gal was immediately outta the blocks and racing. Agog. Whispered questions were frankly answered, pretty much verbatim Molly B. Yes, Yes, Yes… Spinning the duration. Throughout. Absolutely without pause. Did she catch her breath once at all? Again, as on the couple previous occasions, the lady had countenanced little delay. Pretend incidental discovery of the readiness beneath the thin cover of the sarong set the wild goose chase going—disrobing without explanation; briefs retained only briefly after the rest. When they too were removed, the jockey mount was sought without further ado. As soon as proximate skin-on-skin was effected, the slide began. Slip-sliding away. (Had Yani ever seen a top traversing the floor? Spinning tops still delighted children in Javanese kampungs.) Frank admission that the position was unaccustomed and relished for the control, Yan added, with the note of recent discovery. Good job below being able to restrain so long, albeit falling far, far short of what was wanted. Might have been fully ninety seconds of the clock, counting each interval of duration. Yan’s upping the ante on the straight was curbed once. Curbed twice. Thrice undone. The woman had been her own worst enemy. A suggestion of another meeting in two or three days promising better might not have been comprehended by a widow like that. Sitting up, looking past her fall of hair seeking confirmation of spillage. Squinting. Unable to detect in the lamplight and left dubious, as if a fraud had been perpetrated.
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