I began to think about the timing of her phone call. It was as if Wendy was psychic and somehow knew that she needed to intercede to prevent me from doing something that could destroy our marriage.When I got back to my room I called Wendy's hotel room. After about seven rings the voice message service picked up. They said that Wendy wasn't in but I could leave a message. I didn't bother to leave a message; I just called her cell phone instead. Wendy answered on the third ring. I asked her where she was and she said, "I'm in bed. I just turned the television off and was ready to go to sleep."I said, "Why didn't you answer your room phone?" I never heard it ring."I thought that a little odd, but didn't question it. Then I asked about the reunion. Wendy said, "It has been great but can I tell you about it tomorrow. I'm really tired now. It's amazing how much everyone has changed yet stayed the same."I said, "We can talk about it tomorrow. I'm glad that you're having a good time. Are you. I was mesmerized as Anne read, losing myself in her works, in the way she moved and in the way her blouse’s buttons, one by one somehow came undone. Before long it was just her and I, I was in my underwear, she wore only her bra and a half-slip. Each poem now was just another step in the seduction as her words slipped past my waistband and curled around my cock. There were no MILFs in those days, happily no AIDS as Anne’s words slid over my body more sensuously than any tongue. Leaning back on the desk, my underwear now at my ankles I watched as her words opened, sucked me in and moved up and down my shaft, her rhyme tickling the head of my cock in small, fluttering rhythms. She stood up as her bra slipped away and I lost myself in the flowing lines of her breasts, the pauses at her nipples as I gently sucked them into my mouth, my tongue learning the texture, yearning for more. Slipping her panties down over her hips, I scanned down stanza by stanza, over her stomach, her.
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