Donna and some more exploits

Temmuz 24, 2022 0 Yazar: admin

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Amateur

Donna and Nellie’s Tits (again) One evening, while waiting for Donna in the pub I was chatting to Nellie at the bar. It was quiet and no other customers were there. Nellie was moaning about her chest again. She had, so she told me, been out to a posh family do the weekend before and one of her tits had made a bid for freedom while she was dancing. She explained that her frock had not been suitable for a bra to be worn under it, since it had no back and she is singularly proud of that piece of her anatomy. I felt it was unwise of her to buy a dress that did not accommodate a bra but didn’t say so. Apparently when the said mammary was released it caused something of a stir among her fellow celebrants. ‘It was this one,’ she said, hefting her left breast, as if it really mattered which had escaped. ‘At least they didn’t both get out.’ I wasn’t sure that particularly mattered but held my counsel. To be perfectly honest I was rather afraid one might pop out as we spoke, so barely contained did they seem to be but was relieved when she said she’d bought a new bra which did the job rather well. ‘Want to see it?’ Before I could refuse and rather to my horror she yanked her t shirt aside to reveal an extraordinarily diaphanous garment which held her boob in a sort of string bag. ‘May one enquire precisely what is occurring here?’ Donna’s voice was right behind my ear. I turned, hastily and started to frame an explanation but her eyes were cold and she appeared angry. ‘I move in and two days later here you are with Nellie’s tit in your face and you drooling all over the counter. It’s not good enough.’ She turned to Nellie. ‘Pop that away, Nell, kaçak iddaa and fetch me a glass of the same as College is having. Better get her one as well, she looks as though she needs one.’ To my huge relief, Donna kissed me and laughed. ‘Should have seen your face, College. Not surprising really, terrifying sight that.’ Nellie returned with two glasses of wine and poked her tongue out at Donna. ‘Just cos you’ve got bee stings for tits.’ She hefted hers again, both together this time. ‘That is what you call a bosom.’ ‘Entre nous, College,’ said Donna later when we were in bed together, ‘this is what I call a bosom.’ She gently palpated mine as I kissed her ear. I had explained that Nellie had whipped it out before I could beseech her not to. I slid down and nestled between hers. ‘They’re not bee stings, they’re gorgeous.’ ‘I couldn’t give a fig, because when you’re doing that and, oh yes, that too, they do the trick lovely.’ I persisted to make sure the trick was being done satisfactorily. She pushed me gently down further so I could lick over her tummy and follow the guiding strip of hair to that delectable treasure that lies, warm and moist for me between her thighs. ‘Are you sure you still trust me?’ ‘Sometimes, College, you talk too much.’ Her fingers curled in my hair and pulled me towards her firmly. I stopped talking, there being far better ways to express my utter love for her. Donna in Paris ‘I won’t be about next week,’ Donna had said over supper one evening. I suppressed an urge to question her. Part of our deal was that I didn’t cramp her style or ask her what she was doing – if she wanted me to know she’d tell me but kaçak bahis I was a mort irritated. Supposing I had booked a theatre trip or planned a surprise party for her. But I hadn’t. ‘I’m going to France. The Gallery Director has asked me to take some paintings by one of her current protégés to a gallery near Notre Dame where they are to be displayed.’ I asked if she was good. ‘You know Munch’s ‘The Scream?’ I nodded. ‘Of course you do, College. Well even though it is not something you’d probably want hanging on your kitchen wall here, it being less than restful on the eye, it has value, no? Miss Crimson Tatley-Bhint’s work has some of those qualities. To wit, you wouldn’t hang it on your toilet wall. She is gratuitously pornographic and her work graphically depicts women suffering, usually at the hands of other women. My Director has offered six of her pieces to be shown, presumably in the hope that the Parisian Perverts club is having a convention.’ Donna, having been recruited to clean the gallery and make sandwiches etc had been promoted to a more senior position and assisted at exhibitions and even wrote blurb for the gallery’s PR material. At last someone was recognising her qualities aside from me. On the evening she was due to return I had laid the table as if for a dinner party. Candles, cut glass, flowers, an ice bucket with a bottle of bubbles in it and I had prepared her favourite meal of Coq au Vin to be followed by chocolate ice cream. I put a note saying ‘Welcome Home’ at her place and then showered and dressed in readiness for her return. I wore the blue dress she had chosen for me and hid in the kitchen when she came illegal bahis home. She strolled into the kitchen where she stopped and stared open-mouthed at the table and the room. I was pleased with her reaction until suddenly two large tears appeared and ran, like glass marbles, down her lovely cheeks. I came out of hiding and held her, worried to death that something was wrong. She shook herself and looked deep into my eyes with her own, mismatched eyes. ‘Don’t mind me, College, but this is simply the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.’ I held her then and felt the wet of her tears on my neck. She stepped back and let her hands slide to my hips. ‘Oh, but look at you,’ she said, then kissed me firmly. Over dinner and champagne she told me she had been fortunate that the Parisian Perverts had indeed been out in abundance (and a Citroen she had remarked impishly) and she had sold all six pictures. She had, purely for the sake of art and commerce, had to sleep with twenty-two Parisian women but, not to worry, they all smelled of garlic and Camel cigarettes. I smiled. As I removed the final dish from in front of her, her hand wandered up under my frock. ‘Oh, College, you’re wearing them for me aren’t you?’ Since the first time she had seen me in stockings and a suspender belt it had been a mode of dress that always inflamed her, hence my decision this evening. She drew me to her and I sat astride her, the dress rucked up to my waist and we kissed. After that we were all hands and mouths and tongues. Later in bed, still wearing the stockings, I lay with her head on my breast and stroked her hair. ‘Only twenty-two Parisian women?’ ‘Well, it might have been twenty-three but who is counting?’ Donna and Rugby Donna and I wandered down to the pub one evening, bought a couple of glasses of wine and sat talking at our usual table by the window.

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