Henry Allington takes it up the ass! It kind of turns me on to think of dominant John with his keys, as my jailer. John brushes my cheek. It is nice to feel wanted by an older, stronger man. He flexes them by the knuckles. Looking back as he leaves the P13 the bus hunk winks and I nod, shyly. Close the padlock on the gate, behind you.
Those two beauties transported me to heaven. Beyond Ivanhoe Road there are fourteen stops, so I am just over half-way. I am a guilty pleasure, but not an outrageous one in these liberated times. Although capable of having sex with living animals, there is an insatiable desire to have sex with dead animals. My nub rubber clamped between his fingernails, John draws his face close to mine. He raises a flat palm beside my cheek, and I know what he intends but do not flinch. Just a fine line separates those behaviours, and he is adept at flipping between them to catch me off-guard. Actually, John fucked me on our first date and recorded my virginity as one of his greatest scalps, with bragging rights. He stares at my hairless chest, capped by small yet pert teats. I come back to John week after week because he tells me, in a round-about way, he wants that door open, and for me to know hard pain and sexual suffering. Not in this case, though. Those words, from this man, mean the world to me. They might lump BisexualBuddies Blog in with the picture blog and make them both private. I am gagged with his shit, and can manage only an Mmm! This bus terminates here: The dude on the bus smiles and I blush, shifting the auburn fringe threatening to fall over my left eye. Again, as with the written blog, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but Google has left all of us with few good choices. John has smoked from the age of fourteen, though, and takes a break stood back to the wall, with a knee bent and the foot resting on peeling paintwork. My boyfriend retrieves the Dunston College schoolbag I left near the door and places it on the tiles, just behind my naked torso. John steps back and watches as I pull the tight-fitting jersey over my head and throw it to the floor, still inside-out. I could also let Google take it private, but I am hesitant to do that for two reasons: John patrols closer, cane in hand, and that sweat starts to run from my armpits, and over my pectorals, and down my thighs. The action has to be genuinely hard to make him hard, now. The place is a monument to the folly of brutalist architecture. But what if, one day, John gave me an ultimatum?
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