It was a slow number, by Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow, called ' the picture.' The stranger took her in his arms, and began to move her slowly back and for...h. Deborah did the only thing she could do, and placed her arms around his shoulders. He began to sing to her softly, " I put your picture away, sat down and cried today... I cant look at you while Im lyin next to her."Deborah had heard the song only once. She didnt care for Sheryl Crow; the song, ' Soak up the sun ' brought back bad memories for. She was hot in the way Moms are hot. That sounds dismissive, but it wasn't, not to him. It was celebratory. She wasn't a twenty-something waif-thin hottie, she wasn’t a MILF, she wasn’t a model, she wasn’t a cartoonish divorcee on the prowl. She was just a single Mom, maybe a little prettier than the others, at least in his eyes. She had dark, alluringly unkempt hair and sea green eyes. Her ample hips curved deliciously into a trim torso before curving out again to accommodate her breasts, big. Starving,’ I answered. I was leaning against him, hardly supporting my own weight and in a flash he scooped me up, carried me across the airy living room and deposited me on the island in the kitchen. ‘What’ll it be, then? Spaghetti? Soup? Something quick and easy so you can give me the grand tour of your parents’ pad, starting with the hot tub?’ I was supposed to be answering a question, but the fire-fighter style transportation had awakened a different kind of hunger. I weaved my fingers. That was Den’s weakness; men’s bottoms. Firm muscular bottoms capable of powerful thrusting; firm muscular bottoms capable of forcefully prising thighs apart; a firm muscular bottom capable of driving a large thick penetrating shaft, a penis that would satisfyingly stretch vaginal walls bringing a woman to a screaming orgasm. She failed; failed miserably; failed pathetically, failed to hold back. She stood up. Her hands rubbed down his back to his waist, slid to the top of his hips and rested.