Still, her breasts stood firmly, pointing straight back at her from the reflection in the mirror.She pinched the skin around her middle. "Hmm. Maybe a... inch." The triangular bush in her pubic area was small and neat.She turned around to look at her buttocks. "Firm. No sag there."Her legs were her best feature, long and well-formed. With a little toning, she would look good in a short skirt -- except that she never wore short skirts. She was a preacher's wife, the spouse of a small-town,. At the bottom of your tummy. I'm all set for today,but I really want to taste your little red slice of pie . . . and I will, onthe day you get all . . . t-tingly. That's the sign . . . that my kind andyours are about to get acquainted.' That's what she seemed to say. So I think. . . if they can talk to us in our thoughts, maybe they can read our thoughts,too. That could explain a lot: how they always find us--always. And how it'salways six each day . . . who get kicky." (This was a fairy. She sped up, making up any lost time through not having taken the shortcut. For the first time in months, she was eager to get inside. She wanted to get changed, dress up really nice, and join them for this momentous meal out. She could almost feel tingles of anticipation spreading over her chest and down her arms, more than ready to see her tormentor finally fall from grace in her mum’s eyes. He wasn’t being revealed as the dirty heartless rapist that he really was, but even that didn’t bother. I soon felt she was approaching the blissful consummation. I thrust my forefinger up her cunt-I found no difficulty, as her school companions had already broken the hymen-and, when well-moistened, I thrust it up her arsehole. Adding its rapid movements to the agility of my tongue on her clitoris, I brought on the longed-for crisis, for which the nimble movements of her bottom, and the convulsive throbbings of her arsehole on my finger had prepared me. She covered my mouth and face with her.