I lightly pushed her back on the couch so she lay down with her full body on it. I seated myself between her legs and took off her panties. She very w...ll might have had the expectation that I would fuck her then - but I had a little something different in mind. After all it was her cocksucking skills that had made me write her again. I started caressing her pussy with my fingers. First gently around it, then more focussing on her clit. She made small sounds of pleasure and expectation. She was. Why was I suddenly blushing and well, let’s be honest, wet between my legs? My brain wasn’t registering this conversation anymore. You could offer me a million dollars and I still wouldn’t be able to recall what was said. It must have somehow led to a double entendre though, because what caught my attention was one word. Say that again. Say what again? Oh, you mean you wanna hear me say “pussy”… That asshole, of course I wanted to hear him say that, mine was melting from the sound of his voice.. He loved her dearly and with her passing the purpose for his life left also. I knew very little about him. He was of Polish origin, Karol Wojtyla, an itinerant worker who turned up one day and wooed mother. She was bewitched with his dark good looks and roguish ways. I heard years later that he had drifted to Italy and was living in Rome, but I never had any confirmation of this.I was named Karol after my father and was brought up by my mother's sister Winifred and her husband Charles Parsons. "If I had a vagina I would love for you to fuck me," she said. I neverliked the word. It was too male. But I never doubted that wanted togive herself to me.We lived together, we worked together, we had sex as often as we like,and we spent as much time as possible in one another's arms. It was theperfect life, while it lasted.Then we got a new president and she was to be deported. You can imagineher horror. Not only would she be losing me, but arriving inAfghanistan with a body like hers,.
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