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The Duck PondI don’t recognize the number, but the text reads: Meet me at Shilshole. Bring your camera.A few weeks ago a beautiful woman exposed herself to me at a bar. She swiped my phone to leave me a series of self-shots of her flashing in the parking lot. I also have a tantalizingly incomplete picture taken under her dress of a very wet, freshly-fucked pussy. I’ve been masturbating to these daily. It’s practically habit. Consequently, I’m as familiar with her curving hips and sloping breasts as I’m familiar with my wife’s body.On the way to the beach, I pick up a new memory card for my camera. I’m sure I’m blushing. My heart is pounding in concert with my pulsing vision and throbbing dick, which sits awkwardly in my pants.Shilshole is a west-facing beach in Seattle. A long sand beach behind a steep slope ringed by the train tracks that stretch from Canada to who knows how far south. The Salish Sea (and we’ll get to the sexy bits in a moment, hang tight) exchanges 1.5 cubic miles of Pacific Ocean with every tide. The Puget Sound is framed against the rugged, impenetrable Olympic Mountains, freshly dusted with early spring snow.I drive the long parking lot looking for some welcoming signal. This is a chilly weekday morning, and the beach is rather empty. A kayaker puts in; farther up the beach a few co-eds are enjoying a late morning bonfire (perhaps güvenilir bahis siteleri they had been up all night, it is spring break). At the end of the drive is a lone car. I get out, and make a show of taking pictures of the wispy locust trees. Someone is in the car, a man in the driver’s seat and a woman next to him. I don’t want to be weird, so I walk off toward the duck pond.A bridge bisects a marsh, part of a habitat reclamation project. It is seclude, a quite ring of trees around still water, the surging Puget Sound not much farther beyond. I hear the car door open. She is walking toward me. I dial in the focus and start snapping shots.She’s wearing a long coat, long enough to cover the top of her black leather boots. She smiles; the wind catches her hair in an obliging gust that also flutters the hem of her coat: I see a flash of bare leg. She reaches into her pocket, and palms something light and small.I smile and let the camera hang at my side. She kisses me without hesitation, and I absorb the slight impact of her momentum. She stuffs her panties down the front of my pants and grins. We don’t say much, the moment is intimate and working, I would hate to ruin it be saying something stupid. She walks along the bridge, and unbuttons her coat. I nearly forget to take up the camera.She’s not wearing her panties. I’m keenly aware that canlı bahis siteleri they are stuffed into my shorts. The head of my prick is electric against her lace every time I move. I’m glad it’s cold, her nipples are as hard as candy in her thin bra. I move closer and drop to a knee. She spreads her legs and lifts the edge of her coat. The light from the duck pond reflects against her glistening thighs. Her pussy hair is light and shows up as gossamer wisps silhouetted against the sea behind her. She tugs at her labia, arranging the folds of her pussy to be more conspicuous. I move a little closer. Looking up, I capture her round midriff and full breasts. She circles her nipples with her fingers.I hear the car door open. It’s her husband, I recognize him from the bar. He’s smiling, thankfully.I move closer still. I can smell her now. Hot, musky, fresh like an apple mingled with the smell of salt water. She pulls her lips apart. Her middle finger circles the tight flesh around her clitoris. I zoom in on the shiny, engorged mound, now proud beneath her hood. “Taste,” she whispers. Her husband starts snapping pictures.I lap up the juice on her inner thigh, and breathe her smell. I make a long stroke with the broad flat of my tongue, stem to stern in nautical terms, slow and deliberate. I flick the end of her clit at the end of the lick. She bahis firmaları pulls my face back to her pussy. She struggles to keep her legs spread, fighting the little convulsions that close around my face. I penetrate her. The folds of her pussy tighten, my tongue slips out. “Eat me,” she gasps.I roll her clit with my tongue, grab her ass, and kiss her deeply, passionately and uncontrollably. She clutches the guardrail and bears down on my savage tongue. I tilt her toward me, like a goblet, and drink her like mead. I am not the least bit ashamed to cum. I pump my own pleasure into her panties. I take a picture of her swollen pussy, her own cum bound in her matted hair. She kisses my neck, my face, tasting herself on my lips. She pulls her panties from my pants and smiles when she feels my still-warm cum. “Keep shooting.” I think she means pictures. I flick the setting to video.She unbuckles her husband’s pants and pushes them around his ankles. His cock flops out of his shorts. She takes it into her mouth, licking the soft underside of his shaft. She cups his balls with her hands, and closes her lips around the cut end. Her mouth purses and relaxes, rhythmically caressing his head. She is fingering herself. He groans, she swallows him whole. He explodes in her throat as she pulls back, taking the load entire. She cums hard, his flaccid organ still in her mouth. I get the whole event on video.He pulls his pants up and wordlessly buttons her coat. I hand him the card from the camera. “Keep the panties,” he orders. They get into their car and leave. I put her panties back in my shorts. For safe keeping.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32