Blast from the past:
They arrive at my doorstep unexpected yet desired, the witches three. Prima, long-limbed, golden, with grey freckles across her nose and hair down past her ass; Secunda, shorter than her sisters and darker, a wry smile ever on her face, blue eyes glinting underneath a fringe of jagged hair; and Tertia, the red child, ginger colored hair everywhere, everywhere, freckles across her shoulders, and a bouncing energy that makes Secunda roll her eyes. Secunda is the one who knocks, waits for Tertia to bound in once the door is open, pushes Prima in, and then raises an eyebrow brow walking past, under my nose.
Tertia in the foyer, against the wall, between the Jackson bust and map of Hannibal's campaign. Pleated skirt pulled up around her waist; girlish panties pulled to the side. Legs over my shoulders so that I may dip my head and taste before she insists, and my pants down to my ankles. Vocal, energetic, but quick. When she comes, she squeaks. Digs fingernails into my neck and bites the earlobe she was previously flicking her tongue across. Shakey legs slide down and rest on the floor.
"My, my," Secunda says, seeing me bob, stiff and glistening from her sister. I forget the pants when I try to turn; pinwheeling my arms as if in farce as I catch myself on Jackson's bust. Prima giggles and takes my hand.
It's to be slower with her, of course, in the bedroom. Silky hair sliding over my skin as she posts above me, slowly rolling her hips back and forth. My fingers resting on her hips; thumbs playing with the moist folds where we join. My eyes are closed, and when she leans forward, I'm showered in her hair. She presses her tiny breasts against my chest; our slick skin slipping against each other. Instinctively my hands slide across her smooth hips to her ass. Shudders, a spasm, another. A hand on my shoulder to push herself up, and a chaste closed-mouth kiss. I slip out of her, still aching.
And there, in the wicker chair next to the bed, Secunda sits, smiles, reaches out to take hold of me; leads me gently, firmly, into the bathroom. Bent in front of the vanity, her fingers -- slick and hot with herself -- play between my cheeks. They probe. I gasp and look up to see her smiling in the vanity mirror before she reaches around. Slim fingers adnorned by cool, silver rings wrapped around me, tweaking; idly stroking.
I hear sounds from the doorway and turn to see Prima and Tertia standing, smiling. I know there will be many releases in the hours to come, but only one will be mine, and it will be like that first shot of rice wine that left me lifeless but so contented on the living room floor. As the room spins and the sandman visits, I'll savor the memories of these bitches three.
They arrive at my doorstep unexpected yet desired, the witches three. Prima, long-limbed, golden, with grey freckles across her nose and hair down past her ass; Secunda, shorter than her sisters and darker, a wry smile ever on her face, blue eyes glinting underneath a fringe of jagged hair; and Tertia, the red child, ginger colored hair everywhere, everywhere, freckles across her shoulders, and a bouncing energy that makes Secunda roll her eyes. Secunda is the one who knocks, waits for Tertia to bound in once the door is open, pushes Prima in, and then raises an eyebrow brow walking past, under my nose.
Tertia in the foyer, against the wall, between the Jackson bust and map of Hannibal's campaign. Pleated skirt pulled up around her waist; girlish panties pulled to the side. Legs over my shoulders so that I may dip my head and taste before she insists, and my pants down to my ankles. Vocal, energetic, but quick. When she comes, she squeaks. Digs fingernails into my neck and bites the earlobe she was previously flicking her tongue across. Shakey legs slide down and rest on the floor.
"My, my," Secunda says, seeing me bob, stiff and glistening from her sister. I forget the pants when I try to turn; pinwheeling my arms as if in farce as I catch myself on Jackson's bust. Prima giggles and takes my hand.
It's to be slower with her, of course, in the bedroom. Silky hair sliding over my skin as she posts above me, slowly rolling her hips back and forth. My fingers resting on her hips; thumbs playing with the moist folds where we join. My eyes are closed, and when she leans forward, I'm showered in her hair. She presses her tiny breasts against my chest; our slick skin slipping against each other. Instinctively my hands slide across her smooth hips to her ass. Shudders, a spasm, another. A hand on my shoulder to push herself up, and a chaste closed-mouth kiss. I slip out of her, still aching.
And there, in the wicker chair next to the bed, Secunda sits, smiles, reaches out to take hold of me; leads me gently, firmly, into the bathroom. Bent in front of the vanity, her fingers -- slick and hot with herself -- play between my cheeks. They probe. I gasp and look up to see her smiling in the vanity mirror before she reaches around. Slim fingers adnorned by cool, silver rings wrapped around me, tweaking; idly stroking.
I hear sounds from the doorway and turn to see Prima and Tertia standing, smiling. I know there will be many releases in the hours to come, but only one will be mine, and it will be like that first shot of rice wine that left me lifeless but so contented on the living room floor. As the room spins and the sandman visits, I'll savor the memories of these bitches three.
VIEW 12 of 12 COMMENTS
vanceowen:
Take a look at the disaster I've made at my house. I'll never get that handled.
paprika:
We are... the happiest days of our lives 