No matter. My memory, imagination and other senses were sufficient to inform me of her actions. After working my painfully erect c**k into her painfully tight cunt, my incomparable professor of chemistry leaned back, used both hands to clutch the sides of the rack, and yet again launched herself headlong into hip-pumping, boy-f*****g mayhem. Casting back her squared shoulders and brilliant head, turning her face and breasts up toward their home in heaven, she took advantage of this delightful new configuration of c**k and cunt so violently and vigorously that the brush of her dancing braid kept lightly sweeping my bent-back belly and chest until those teasing tickles were competing with my sadistic stretching to see which torment would drive me batty first.
What would it be: torture, tick
