I might as well get some pics of it. “OK”, I said. She stood up and dropped her robe. Naked she climbed back up on the bed. He dropped his towel...and I saw his cock was stiffening. I guess they had made a plan in the shower. He laid back on the bed and she bent over to suck his cock. He put his hands behind his head as she worked on him. I almost forgot and reached for the camera. I had no idea she could give a blow job like that. I rarely got her to suck my cock. Soon he was hard as rock and. ..Away! away! for I will fly to thee."(John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale')There's one thing about those Romantic Poets, they definitely understoodthe mundane. When I first read this poem I didn't understand it. I meansure, I got it - enough to write a ball-braking essay on the subject inthe halcyon days of University. Eating toast or takeaways for every meal,staying awake until 4:30 in the morning. But I never truly understood it.For the uneducated out there, in "Ode To Nightingale" Romantic. I stopped moving. I pressed my fingers up tightly against her G-Spot, holding them still, pushing harder. Essie's pussy was pulsating, her body was throbbing and I didn't move. I wanted her to enjoy this deep state of pleasure. Then I did it again, taking her higher than she has ever been. Essie having orgasm after orgasm. Essie slowly returned and I knew she was fully satisfied. I held her gently, letting her dictate to me what she now wanted. Essie was tired, she had been working so hard, for. Cue rounds of laughter from the rest of the table but only a small grin and a muttered agreement from her. Dinner done, dishes packed away and TV watched to death – it hit midnight and everyone retired to bed. I found myself awake in bed with a snoring partner beside me, and as usual, a million and one fantasies of married pussy and see-through dresses to contend with before I could fall asleep. Tonight though, I was losing the battle. My brain refused to grant me the gift of rest….and so did.