He didn’t correct her, knowing that she got a small, perverse pleasure, calling him Michael instead of Mike. “That was just perfect.” “You h...ve my number.” He answered, indicating his new business card that still sat, pristine, on the marble topped occasional table by the door. Her nod effectively dismissed him. He stepped through into the coolness of the porch then, into the harsh sunlight of an August day. The heat hit him immediately, taking his breath away momentarily. Robert, his given. If they opened their legs other than under the table, someone could see their cunts. We had wine with our meal and enjoyed all of it. Leaving almost caused a riot with lots of skin showing. It was obvious that neither was wearing a bra and most could be pretty sure that panties weren’t present either. We left, returning to the house for the night.We pulled into the garage and I closed the door behind us. We moved hurriedly to get out of the car and inside the house. Once in the living room,. By the way, my personal foot fetish was centered around tickling, massaging, licking soles and toes, and footjobs. I never got in to shoe collecting or dirty feet. None of the more submissive stuff was never my thing. I simply enjoyed the pleasure I gave women through pampering and tickling their feet. But for me, it was an complete aphrodisiac. One day my wife (who at the time was my girlfriend of about a month) discovered an online profile of mine that had a photo of a girl being tickled on. I am the Spiritual Poetess, The Queen of Seduction, The Chosen One.Ladies. We see it on cable. We witness it on the Internet.We want it! We need it! We just got to have it!We know that it will be us one day,Catching us off guard, unexpected, and so authentically real;Being taken by a Viking or a mammoth gladiator,With a gigantic cock, and such savage passion.I shall take my little poetess and ferociously hammer her like no tomorrow!Yes! She is so pretty! Her hips are so curvy! Her face is.