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"I'mwaiting."But Marcia vigorously shook her head no.Walt unzipped his coat and removed from inside a bouquet of flowers, pinktulips, he'd been shielding against his body. At first Marcia thoughtthey were for her. Instead, Walt stepped forward towards the gravesite towhich their apparent random wandering had brought them. But upon casuallyreading the inscription on the stone Marcia realized with a shock thatthere was nothing random about the destination at all. The name engravedinto the stone beneath the carved angel: Amanda Watson.Marcia said nothing, too stunned, too respectful of Walt's grief, as hestepped forward and knelt in the damp grass before the memorial, layingthe tulips on the stone, and silently prayed. Today, Marcia noted, wasthe anniversary of the girl's death."My daughter," Walt said, when he'd finished. "She wasn't even sixteen.She committed suicide." Oh god Walt. I'm so sorry." You never asked me what brought me to Hope Crossing. This is whatbrought me back. I know. " She asked again."Of course but...they can see your breasts right through it." I told her."Honey, they are all going see my breasts later anyway." She said."But before that, this outfit will drive them crazy." She told me.I can't say that it didn't look great on her, because she looked incredible."Now haven't you got something that you should put on ." She asked.She meant the panties she had told me to wear tonight."Are you sure I have to." I asked."Yes." She told me.So I reached out and grabbed the panties and put them on. They were tight as hell, my dick almost had no room."Those look real nice on you, you could even see your little dick there." Helen said with a little grin on her face."Now you better go down and open up something for the guys to drink." They should be here any minute now." She told me.I did what she told me and got downstairs and poured some beers into glasses.Then the doorbell rang."Why don't you go and open the door honey." She said.I felt like a wimp when I.
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Her hair swirled around her head. Her hands were clutched tightly between her legs, the fingers tensing and flexing rhythmically. Her face contorted just like the gentleman had desperately hoped he would see it contort, as though she were beside herself with utter pleasure, absorbed in some act of utmost lust.The fair-skinned, sloe-eyed woman before him began to sing. Not one man lived who could identify the family of languages hers belonged to, let alone understand what she was chanting. But if Lameya’s speaking voice sounded like a toned-down orgasm, then her chanting was an orgasm multiplied by itself a thousand times. She squealed with delight, gasped from blends of pain and ecstasy, wailed like a cat in heat, and moaned with horrified satisfaction.These senses hit the gentleman’s brain more strongly than the taste of blood in his mouth, or the sharp pains in his still-gripping knuckles, or the buzzing sensation in his aching penis, but neither sight nor sound could compete.

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