You're soaking.
Drips trickling down to fall from your shirt.

You smell
The queasy scent of milk too long in the sun.

It hurts.
Every movement calculated to avoid the pain of an injudicious contact with
Your HUGE breasts

You're not your own.
Belonging to, controlled by a blindly seeking mouth...

With rosebud lips...

and hands like starfish...

that pull you close...

and need you...

And when the seeking lips close over you

and the tiny tongue works

and the starfish pulse against the heat of your body...

It's perfect.

And you forget the wet, and the smell, and the hurt

And simply feel...

The bliss.

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