It wasn’t a thong but hugged her ass very well and the top covered her ample breasts much better. She couldn’t help it though, she still felt like...a dirty slut as her mind went back to her on her knees pleasuring her son’s friend. When she returned to the pool, she was relieved that the boys didn’t pay a lot of attention to her. She was pretty sure Brett had kept his mouth shut about what had happened and that might work out well for him. About a month had gone by and she had been sucking. One, I clench, to no effect. One... One..."Oh stop that silly, you're in no pain. You can't be that soft." To which I earn a solid open-handed slap to my other cheek. "Now, not another "word". Reaching around me, she gently caresses my chest, slowly circling my pecks, zeroing in on my left nipple, lightly rolling it between her fingertips and ooouch. Nothing but nails. I feel her pressure against my jugular as she slides in one, then two fingers. The silence is broken with an almost. I gathered mine to put in my bag and noticed something loose in the middle pages, I opened it up and there folded in the middle was a torn out page with my writing, staring back at me. A parting gift from Mr. M simply letting me know that he’d read my writings. Was it so terrible? Had I really embarrassed myself as much as I thought? Or had it been a dream?Dear Mr. M,First off I owe you an apology. A few months ago someone stole your good pen, then you found it. And remember the same thing. I found the house quite easily as it was the only post-modern Bauhaus/Tudor fusion on the whole PCH. As bizarre as it sounds, the combination of Tudor trim and gables with the contrast of a severe set of angles, steel, and glass was done in such a way as to be appealing. This was the house Frank Lloyd Wright wouldve designed if hed been 1980s Hamburg Eurotrash amped up on rap and meth. I knew the black Ferrari would look appropriate as I pulled it into the open garage. I shut off the motor and.