“Mind you, that would explain Mr Floppy. Do you like my perfume?” she added, for a change of direction.“Very nice,” I said. “But I'd rather ...mell you.”“What? Perfume costs a bomb and that's what it's for, to make us smell good.”“I would rather smell your skin,” I reiterated popping my nose between her breasts and into an armpit. “It's great, and you're obviously very careful about these things. But I'd rather smell you than Issey Miyake's idea of what you should be like. Or Mum's no-white-marks. After a three-hour drive across the ranch, with the sun beating down, none were even remotely cool. We debated the relative merits of which might taste best hot, or to be more accurate, which might taste the least bad while hot, before opting for a beer each. Susan took all the rest out to the creek and dropped them in, hoping the water would cool them off some. Hot beer, on a hot day, is actually not quite as bad as it sounds. Especially if you are sharing it with the runner-up to the Miss. The room had high ceilings and resembled an expensive study. The wood work perfectly put together and finished to look like it was all one piece of wood. The wallpaper that resembled cloth was very ornate as well. The old world authenticity was even more appreciated because of the technology. There were switches and directions to do a lot more than we needed. There were electric hoists and lighting and sound boards. It was an amazing combination of high quality old and new blended to. Cindy was bent over the railing on the patio being railed from behind by a huge black guy with a humongous sausage. Each gut wrenching thrust brought a low pitched groan from Cindy and a lower pitched guttural growl from her meat server. I watched in fascination as the black pole slid in and out of her, tugging those delicious pussy lips almost grotesquely with each outward thrust. Finally, with the bellow of a castrated bull, he erupted into her womb violently, shaking like a giant oak in.