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She could not conceal her wonder when she extracted Phibes' cock and weighed it in her hand and looked into his eyes and imagined this monster inching up her ass. Her ex's cock wasn't even this big and he left her pretty tore up and sore. "Does it meet with your approval?" asked Phibes seeing the various emotions flickering over her face. "You've got quite a cock hanging off you, brother," she said. Phibes was undressing her. His patience was dwindling and the sensation of her fingers around his cock spurred him on. She sat on the edge of the bed and took his cock into her mouth, or rather as much as she possibly could. Her jaws opened as far as physically capable but they quickly began to ache and she just ran her tongue along the lengthy shaft while her hands held his hefty balls. Phibes lifted her up by the underarms and she realized how strong he was. His thin frame gave no indication of his true strength. He tossed her back onto the bed, opening her legs, and eating out her. I was thinking of the white boy next door and his hard ten inch cock that had been in my mouth , stretched my pussy, and broken in my asshole. After imagining him fucking me in the kitchen while my husband watched a boring cricket match New Zealand v England. I tried to stifle my moaning as I came. The next morning I woke up as I walked to the kitchen naked except for a silk bathrobe loosely tied , I see my husband working out, using the gym equipment, sweat running down his face. His dirty breakfast dishes in the sink. He walked in to the kitchen , his imposing 190cm 95kg athletic body now only covered by his football shorts. I'm going for a shower then to the golf course , we should meet at S P Q R for drinks about 4 and then go out for dinner he said , okay . Does that fit in with your day , ok , good as he continued walking away ,up stairs to our bedroom en suite.I had my cereal and fruit , read the paper, I hear the garage door open, the roar of the Dodge Ram start then rumble.
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Slowly his eyes adjusted. He made out the grey and silver shapes of trees, the subtle brush-strokes of moonlight providing the only detail on a black canvas. Mark Oakman had checked the crime-scene log. It confirmed that everyone who had entered had also left. He was alone. Alone in the presence of the dead. It was impossible to forget that. Mark had not seen a corpse until two months ago when, during the first days of police training, he had visited a mortuary. An elderly man with unidentifiable yellow stains on his apron had displayed his parade of cadavers. He ticked off the cause of death in each instance, pointing out claw-hammer marks in one man’s skull, then a man whose head had nearly been decapitated by a broken beer bottle. Even those expired by natural causes appeared ghastly, with paper-thin skin and sunken eyes. He had seen the bloated rotten meat of those whose death had not been discovered until decomposition ravaged them. He had studied the strange erosion of flesh.

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