Boy could she play. And sing too. She didn’t have any notes or anything in front of her. She just played and sung. It was really really good. Her vo...ce was so perfect; slightly deep and husky and very very sexy and perfect for belting out power ballads and giving me goose bumps all over.She then moved on to a string of motown classics. I recognised them all, even if I couldn’t name them. When she played and sung Stevie Wonder songs she made them her own. It was magical. She has a gift.It was. We all know that men usually make their decisions using their head, the one in their pants, so I said, "Jean, just go ahead and enjoy yourself," and smiled at her.I figured she'd just leave her hand there which was all right with me but, no, she said, "Do you mean that I can take it out?"Well, I knew that wasn't what I meant at all but, well, come on, what would you do?"If you'd like, Jean, if it makes you happy." Would you do it for me?" she asked so I slid down the zipper and twisted my. It really did hurt, but she was able to focus more on the pain and realised that as well as hurting much more than she had expected, that pain linked to the humiliation of being bent over to present her bare bottom, and the feeling of submission that she had to a young woman Emma’s age, all put together, made her want to receive more strokes of the cane.Dale recovered quicker than after the first two strokes and looked at the floor behind her and again saw Emma’s bare legs and the hem of her. There was above-average curvature on the butt cheeks. In tight jeans or jogging pants, they definitely would incur lots of head-turns. But it was the mound, that sweet, wet mound between those two fleshy half-moons which had Thread’s vision honed in on.Nancy’s pussy lips, indecently displayed, were bloated and drooling with feral humidity and need. The swaying buns slinked to the left, then to the right, then to the left. It was a silent, smoldering beckoning for Bobby Threads to mount the.