When Sarah Lynn pushed me down on the couch I was almost prepared for her to mount me. That means not prepared at all. She sank onto my cock and the s...lk glove milked me for all she was worth.“I love you so much, Jett. I knew you were the man for me. I knew it from the moment you picked me up after commencement and gave me a T-shirt to wear. Jett, I love you and I love making love to you. You are everything I imagined you’d be. Everything that Lonnie said.” What the fuck? Oh, fuck! Sarah milked. Look, people almost always use the word lust to mean something superficial, biological. But there are different kinds of lust. There’s that kind, the superficial kind. Like, when you’re watching porn, and you see some pneumatic 20-year-old worshiping a cock with her mouth, screaming ‘fuck my ass’ and all that. She’s hot, she’s young, she’s skinny, she’s flawless, and she wants you to come on her—it turns you on.”“One would hope,” he said.“But what if she stepped out of your television screen. Rather than to just keep squeezing her leg, I started softly rubbing my hand up and down her inner thigh. She liked what I was doing and slouched down a little more. Her knees were now pressed onto the two armrests of the seat on front of her. Her eyes were closed and she took long regular breaths. Deciding to go for the gold, I covered her mound with my hand and continued the up and down motion of my arm, stroking her gently, being careful not to dip my fingers into her wetness too soon. And. Grossfeldt, my Survey of Western Art instructor had a little sneer that made me think he didn't like me. I didn't know why, after all, I'd never met the man before today. The only thing I could think of was a question I'd asked when class started. I'd wised off and asked Mr. Grossfeldt if by Western Art he meant artists like Fredrick Remington and Ansel Adams. I quickly discovered he had no sense of humor."Mr. Randahl," his voice dripped with disdain, "Western Art covers the great art of.