Thirty-One Days A Bitch: The Strip Show - Sex Stories

Thirty-One Days A Bitch: The Strip Show

Daisy likes the music that is playing and crooning out loud. It is sweet and beautiful; gentle and winning. With each sluggish, tortoise-like tempo and rhythm, she can feel her pulse gait and punch build and strengthen up. Blood upsurges and gushes more faster and rapid inside her veins. All as she awaits for him to take off his clothes or strip one hundred per cent naked. He seems to be biding his time ably and conscientiously. Preston Dick; the man she is wed and espoused to now as both his bitch and whore of a loving wife. He is erect and straightened up on his feet right here before her very face and eyes, robed and geared in a black suit that looks as neat as a new pin and impeccable and spotless as an angel’s vestment. His shoes, just like his neck tie and wrist watch, are dusky and dark in color and shade. He is nice-looking and highly attractive to the extent that Daisy cannot help but let saliva trickle and slobber steadily and gradually out of her mouth. She later on laps and brushes it all back with her lustily, horny, and sexual-craving tongue. She can even picture and think herself brushing and pecking at his charming, enjoyable nipples all the way farther down to his chest to his dick to his penis beneath there. Preston’s eyes are leveled and unswerving away from her. He glances and stares at her mildly as she lies down there on their matrimonial bed, stripped fully nude and uncovered. She makes a slight, delicate and yet fragile movement—one that has her ...

... large, chunky buttocks and goodly-sized breasts jig and wiggle about carelessly. This is as enough and sufficient as is needed to whip up his dick from its day-long and hours-stretched form of sleep. He can feel it get up and jump its way steadily and by degrees in his underwear—where an itchy, edgy-like feeling starts to haunt and afflict him. He must dance and spin to the music now. He must do it for sure. First, he pitches and chucks his right foot ahead of him. Hurriedly and at a flying, winged-like style of pace. This is in divergence and contrariety to the slow-moving, dawdling-like tune of music. The rhythm is still lazy and lagging in its pace and motion. Next; his sound, healthy, and fit as a fiddle hand races and tears to the collar of his shirt so that it seizes and takes hold of his pitch-black tie; which, upon being clutched and clung on to; gets all of a sudden and straight away snatched and snapped up straight away. With a renting-akin and shredding-alike sound, the tie ghosts and slips off the collar, heading on to swirl and whirl and twirl its way freely and liberally in the slack, untethered, and unconfined air. While he wheels and spins himself around on his two staid and stabilized feet, Preston tosses and pitches the tie away so he can briskly and speedily commence to untie and unbridle the buttons of his jacket. Having slung and lobbed it down to the floor, he breaks off from swinging round-about and persistently switching his position. For a skimpy, scant ...