I recall the first time we talked about sex on her couch. She was smiling and giggling as she held her hands out about 8 - 10 inches, wondering how bi... I got when hard. I answered her honestly and naively and said if she really thought I was that big, she would be eventually disappointed. An unrecognized premonition? It did not matter for the each of us at least at that time. She would go to her room and strip naked and put on a bathrobe. The first time she came back out and I discovered she. I bring them up to my face and inhale your scent. Should I call it a scent? Or an aroma? Or is it a bouquet? It is intoxicating whatever I call it, and then I run my tongue along the dampness and taste you for the first time. Second-hand taste, but satisfying, just like standing next to a smoker when you desperately need a puff on a cigarette, but don't have one yourself. I ask you to turn around. You ask why. I tell you that I am getting your surprise ready. You turn around. I unzip my pants. Years ago, drunk, stoned and horny. She’d fought with her husband at a party after seeing him smack one of the other mum’s on the arse. It was playful and innocent enough, everyone had been drinking and was feeling good and she probably should have just had a laugh and let it go because, ultimately she knew that there was nothing in it. But something in her made her go over to him and have a semi-serious go at him for doing it. The response wasn’t quite what she expected with him telling her. It was so her. And yet I didn’t think entirely about her face. I tried rationalizing it away even as I squirmed in my seat, trying to pretend my pussy wasn’t responding to these incestuous thoughts. I promised I wouldn’t snoop, so I started sketching, trying to recreate the idyllic image, needing to capture how beautiful she had looked with my pencil. And that’s where it started…I decided to look again, just for reference, forcing myself not to think about the tingling wetness below my waist..