She smiled:“I don't fuck black men“ she whispered. “My lily-white holes are untainted by niggers and will so remain. I'm racist like that.“ He... hand was still stroking my cock. She put her other hand to my mouth. I should be offended, but instead I was even more turned on. I sucked on her finger. She then moved the hand down to my ass, slowly cicling my hole. Nothing had ever entered me there, but it felt so good.“Wouldn't you rather he came inside her pussy? Deep inside her fertile womb? You. He is going once, and going twice, He's going and almost gone.But the Master comes, and the foolish crowdnever can quite understandthe worth of a soul and the change that is wroughtby the touch of the Master's hand."The Touch of the Master's Hand" By Myra B. Brooks Welch (1877-1959)The young woman's voice echoed throughout the caverns beneath the cellars of the opera house, dwindling away into silence. She opened her eyes and found, much to her astonishment, that her angel's eyes were streaming. Their lubricious appendages fasten to his flanks and whorl downhis barrel, exploring his contours and muscled dimensions, sliding into thecrevices between his legs. They pay little attention to the stallion'stwitches and flutters, his whinnies and snorts. Tips of tendril-likedigits massage the heavy smoothness of the colt's massive balls and probethe sheath guarding his penis; they bore inside and grip the spongy headand draw it slowly out.The monsters cover the prone boy with their tentacled. Her eyes were still closed. "I'm Tolliver now, sort of, but m'lord," she squealed as I rolled her over, got to my feet and had at her while her legs waved aimlessly toward the ceiling. She beat the mattress with her fists, shook her head from side to side and achieved a shuddering orgasm while I held her at the waist and rammed her steadily as my hands slid up to enfold her upright bubbies and squeeze her nipples out, my feet still rooted to the floor, and my hips beating a steady thrusting.
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