The Sunday morning air was perfect—filled with the outdoor scent of dampness and new mown lawn, and perhaps, miles down the street, bacon sizzling in some old lady’s frying pan. Time stretched endlessly before her, the morning, the afternoon, the evening. No reason to get out of bed. A tart on her back with her legs spread wide, she settled in for a long playtime at her randy snatch. If Martin could only see her now.
Her mind settled swiftly on the photographer—imagining him naked, that fine spear of his about to wrench her p***y wide. He was very good—and just two days ago. She sighed. But perhaps not anymore—her thoughts began to drift away. Martin was too easy. To focus on him her physical desire floated lazily with no sure place to go. What was raw between her thighs wanted something
