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She was still wearing the gorgeous camisole when he began massaging her shoulders, but soon sat forward a few inches and lifted her arms in a silent signal that it was time for the garment to come off, and Sam happily removed both it and his tee shirt. He could tell she was getting close to orgasm, and was grateful because he also knew he couldn’t last much longer; the taunting her fingers were performing on him, coupled with the fantasy that had enabled him to while away the time during the slow drive home, had him primed to shoot his load like a horny 16-year-old, but he dutifully held out for her signal.
I would like to think that somewhere buried in the depths of her brain is a memory of some feeling for me that knows that for all my flaws I did eventually do the right thing, that out of everyone who manipulated and used her I was the one who actually loved her. That's what I want to believe as I saw one corner of her mouth curve into a smirk, "I suppose someone with a predilection to read Dostoevsky can't be all bad." I smile, not having any fucking clue what predilection means, but I assume it's good.
An idea formed in her head, she looked around quickly for George, when she saw him working the room, she grabbed Fred by the bulge in his pants and, without saying a word, led him to his office upstairs like a dog on a leash. Christine then returned downstairs and looked for George. Christine slid off Fred and George climbed on the table in a way so he could mount Fred. Instead of the anticipated screaming from Fred, Christine heard "Ooh, that's a tight fit." Slightly puzzled, she snapped a picture with her cell-phone/camera of them in the act, making Fred's face the more visible of the two, and quietly returned downstairs to the party.