“Alright…give me your cum…NOW!” I told her, and was rewarded with a groan and the sound of “unnnhhh…unnnhhh” as she grunted and spasmed ...o her release…I counted one…two…three…four powerful contractions, as she strained to let the full climax cum. “More” I whispered…”more…one more time” as she reached for the last vestiges of the powerful orgasm that had just overwhelmed her. I could hear her gasping for air; I was sweating and my crotch was soaked. “That’s a good girl…that’s a good girl” I. Behind me the stranger fucks me harder, pulling onto my hips, that gives me the indication that it is ok for me to start moving. I gyrate my hips and ride his cock. I feel the head of his cock hit my g-spot. My vaginal walls tighten around him, my buttocks clenches as I prepare for orgasm. I feel his body language tense up and spasm indicating he is about to cum as well, he pulls out of me ripping off the condom releasing himself over my ass cheeks. At that very same moment a gush of. There was just something about it. I had pored over photos of the main one in The Sistine Chapel as a student as well as other examples of Michelangelo’s art. He was very good at hands for a start. Some of the greatest artists have struggled with hands and either messed them up or avoided them altogether. He had a gift of expression, pathos and depth of interpretation. The beauty of his portrayal of the Virgin Mary in Elizabeth’s painting embodied all his finesse. The modesty in her sideways. As if that simple motion broke some sort of spell, he finally turned on his heel and stepped past her, disappearing into the cool sanctum of the tent. He had black hair that fell well beyond his shoulders. She didn’t even realize that she sighed or that she had failed to completely close the flap. Dirt encrusted fingers still holding it open enough to allow her daring eyes a prolonged look inside. Somewhere in the back of her mind begging him to turn around so that she could the face that had.