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I could get lost in them for days. Your knees finally raced against the sides of your desk and I can see all of you. so pink, tender. Begging for attention. Your lips swelling with pressure, and excitement. I can see a slight glisten on one of your lips from where you’re beginning to leak out just a little bit. Here, let me clean that off for you. With an outstretched tongue I lean in and taste you for the first time. So clean, and sweet. I want more. My hands on your thighs I pull you down in your chair a little so I can reach you better. Leaning in to kiss you as if it was your mouth. Soft at first, and then with more passion, and pressure. Eventually slipping in the tip, and then all of my tongue. Flicking it around inside you. I can hear a pencil breaking in your hand above the desk. So I give you a few seconds to catch your breath, then I’m back into you. My lips sealed against you while just my tongue alone plunges in and out of you. Parting your lips to find the prize inside. The carpenter and I were the only busy bees in the house with mum fast sleep.I finished my meal, washed my hands, drank some water and squatted sat down close to the carpenter who was also in a squatting position doing some work on the door that was removed and lying on the ground. The carpenter was well known to us for ages and he lived in the neighbourhood and did many odd jobs for us. No wonder mum went to sleep allowing the carpenter to do his work.We fell into talking. He asked me about little, little things I cannot now remember.I found that now and then his eyes strayed to where my crotch was. Wondering why he looked at my crotch I looked down and was embarrassed to see that my skirt had dropped down revealing my inner thighs and pussy (I wear panties only during menses to hold the pad). My instinct was to immediately get up and squat again tucking the bottom part of the skirt so that I would be covered.But then sexual cunningness took over and my instinct to cover receded. By.
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We were merely women. All women of our age worked hard, but my father was relentless. He picked my husband for me, to ensure I was not coddled. Thus I was worked and raped as God intended. I bore children, and I read telegrams that claimed to honor their deaths.None of the widows of the township failed to warn their daughters against marrying a pig farmer. Nor did they need too. What daughter of women who had taken control of their destinies would suffer a stink filled life, to cleave unto a rare man their age. My son despaired to ever marry, three years after southern United States society, in 1867, considered him a man. I had made fritters that morning alongside our best bacon, and a pudding for lunch. I had wished my son great happiness in his eighteenth year. It was all the present I could afford. I entered my home with some reservation. "Hory?" I'm in the loft, Mother. Climb up." It was from my bed he called me. His own lay by the iron stove. Grandpa Regis had a room townsfolk.

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