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Doesnt that feel good baby girl on your wet little pussy? Sara questioned raspily. The walls of her vagina were throbbing at an alarming rate, wanting to feel her daughters climax covering her hand. Her throat was dry as she maneuvered her fingers faster on Joys drenched clit, her daughter humping her hand with more desperation in each bounce. Come on Joy, I know it feels good for you baby! Come all over mommas hand and make it all wet! Make mommy happy baby! Saras own fingers found her own throbbing clit and began to rub it vigorously. Her old, wet pussy humping in search for an entering cock, she forced her fingers down her shaved slit to her hole and slammed her fingers inside herself. Joy sped up her bounce, bouncing harder and faster on her moms hand, her actions becoming jerky. Knowing that Joy needed something extra to be sent over the edge, Sara leaned down and sucked on her daughters neck and ground her hand into her daughters grinding pussy. Her ear was in the perfect place. I got used to flaming goose turds ala orange, and even the linguini in a delicate limburger cheese sauce. No, really, I did. Then one night the garlic, the fennel, the basil — all of it swarmed and attacked like a herd of mad penguins and in pure panic and desperation I sought out some hippie hideaway off Piccadilly Circus and stocked up on incense. Patchouli, sandalwood, essence of camel crotch — anything, really, to fight the nonstop wave of nouvelle cuisine that was bombarding me all evening, every evening — save Monday. Big sign out front: Closed Monday. Thank God. They were, however, open for lunch weekends. Life here should have been grand, yet here I was, drowning in a white wine and garlic cream sauce. I walked down sidewalks and labrador retrievers started in on my ankles, and when I rode on the tube people started sniffing the air, wondering just who or what the hell had crawled on board. And you’d think the food, rather the stench of this place, would have been enough.
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