One day I popped over to borrow one of John’s videos. John and his dad were was out, but Mrs Morgan was her usual happy bouncy self. “Come in, I think it’s in the VCR already” she said and turned on the television. The screen burst into life and there, in glorious technicolour, was Mrs Morgan, slurping away on an absolute monster of a cock. “Oh my god” she squealed, her hands shooting to her mouth as she spun around to face me and my instantly hard cock straining up against my tight shorts.“Oh. My. God!” she squealed again, “You horny little man! Don’t tell me you like looking at that filth.” All I could do was nod like a little idiot. “Well then” she said, “why don’t we enjoy the show together.” With that, she came and sat on the sofa behind me, opening her legs and pulling me in between them so that I stood there, my back against those incredible tits, her legs either side of me and her head looking over my shoulder. Then she put her left hand down to my zipper, and pulled out my. The memories of her so fresh, so painful. I remember the public her, the little black dress that had the men drooling, queuing up in a long line for a simple dance with my gorgeous wife, the smile that lit the room and infected everyone with a joy of life and a lust for living. I remembered the envy others directed toward me, for simply being with her and I felt the pride, pride for having had her choose me for her partner. The pain rolled through my soul as I recalled the private woman, the girl who so casually cuddled her nude body against mine, sending thrills through me, as she smiled that smile that turned my insides gushy and warm and so filled me with content. I could almost hear the giggles of adults at post sexual play, a gift shared between us, never to be again. The anguish overwhelmed me. I wanted her so. I needed her so. My being wracked by sobs so strong my whole body shook with pain. I longed to touch her one more time, to feel her body wrapped around mine. The ache.
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