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He pulled back, and then pushed forward, a little deeper again. And the pleasure intensified. Again: he pulled his cock back, and then forward, ever...deeper, and with each movement, my breath was taken away. He was fucking me. I was being fucked. No. That's too crude. He was making love to me, making me over, making me new. Because he wasn't just pushing in and pulling out, everything about his dick seemed designed more my pleasure. I could almost feel the blood rushing through the. As I do so I feel my even stiffer nipples poking me through my vest which paints my face yet a deeper shade of red. I look down and see that I am now completely braless, the shape of my breasts completely traceable through my thin, tight, white top, and my swollen pink nipples cutting an obvious contrast through my top. I grind to halt again, frozen by panic and shame, clutching at my boobs I look around for my bra, where the hell is it? I see the man again, standing inside a shop window. More

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