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As she made the ‘OK’ sign with her index finger and thumb, my hard cock filled the hole of that universal hand-gesture that indicates everything is alright. And everything was better than alright. She was lying under my arched, naked body, her left hand doing the bare minimum necessary to still qualify as a hand-job. I was doing most of the work, thrusting in and out of her digital aperture. She was lying naked on her back, her right hand doing more work on her clit than her left on my dick. But, hey, it’s not a competition. I was pleased. She was pleasing — herself and me.
“That’s it, you big, bad dog,” she said in a sultry tone, referencing the taboo topic of her acquired technique.
She knew exactly what that would do to me. She plays me like a fiddle with her nimble fingers, though I’m sure she’d rather play a long, black clarinet that requires both hands to get the proper fingering and also the use of a wet mouth and tongue to blow all those Ds loud and with proper dynamics.
Within seconds my baton was conducting the final climactic notes of this symphony.
As I write these tortured metaphors, I can hear Lo laughing and saying, “Symphony! P’shaw, more like a minuet.”
Be that as it may, she was covered in pearlesque droplets from chin to chest.