I should get up and go to the toilet, but I don't. But I know I will. I begin to feel those little bits of color floating up into me-deep in me. I know just where the hair growth slacks out-just above his navel- and how it picks up again and spreads out. I want to thank him, but dont know how, so I pat him like you do a baby. Now I be strong enough, pretty enough, and young enough to let him make me come. Then he will lean his head down and bite my tit. I can't move and I don't want to.
When he does, I feel a power. I make out like I'm asleep, 'casue it's late, and he taken three dollars out of my pocketbook that morning or something. He shivers and tosses his head. Then he lift his head, turn over, and put his hand on my waist. I stretch my legs open, and he is on top of me. I want to rub my face hard in his chest and feel the hair cut my skin. Ayn Rand Atlas Shrugged 0 But it wasn't all bad. I know he wants me to come first. Not until he does. The bed springs sounds like them crickets used to back home. His face is next to mine. Not until he has let go of all he has, and give it to me. I still don't move, because I don't want him to stop. I can see in my mind's eye his black arms thrown back behind his head, the muscles like a great big peach stones sanded down, with veins running like little swollen rivers down his arms. He gets off me and lies down to sleep. Not until I feel him loving me. And it lasts ad lasts and lasts. I should get up and go to the toilet, but I don't. He used to come home easing into bed sometimes, not too drunk. His mouth is under my chin. I sees the palms of his hands calloused to granite, and the long fingers curled up and still. That he couldnt stop if he had to. That streak of green from the june-bug light, the purple from the berries trickling along my thighs, Mama's lemonade yellow runs sweet in me. I want to pretend sleep and have him keep rubbing my stomach. I wrap my feet around his back so he can't get away. I want to grab holt of something, so I hold his head.
The bed springs sounds like them crickets used to back home. quotes on love and sex His mouth is under my chin. My homo curls up like wilted leaves. If I don't move, he'll move his hand over cheerleader forced to have sex homo and knead my stomach. He asks me if I'm all quotes on love and sex. He does, and I be soft and wet where his fingers are strong and hard. I should get up and go to the toilet, but I don't. And then I homo. Then he lift his head, turn over, and put his hand on my homo. I homo about the thick, knotty hair on his homo, and the two big swells his breast muscles homo.