Again, some months ago, in a hotel room in my homeland. Even after sex and a good shower, while getting dressed for supper, a tight hug and some fondling might restart all the process of a long intercourse. Just at the moment of the spark of our mutual re-arousal (mostly mine!), my partner shot that picture of my back with the panties still on (not for long), the shirt not yet entirely uplifted, and his own hands holding the camera… and, so, still away from my buttocks.
(I recall what I was telling him just then: “I’m covered with body milk, don’t lick me much…” I do not recall what he answered. What I remember with fondness –anytime I was with that man– is my ardour: the intensity of my horniness, and the size of his erected dick relative to the size of my pee, be it hard or limp; that great difference made me feel grateful, snug, more cute and much more feminine than I really was or I still am.) Having that man inside was bliss, having him make with me all he fancied and making me wail and pour all my bodily fluids, was pure pleasure. I just wanted more.
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