“Absolutely.” I replied, as she fondled my scrotum. “Oh God, me too. Now stroke your cock and raise your hips.”I grabbed hold and began to sli...e my hand up the shaft when I was told to go slow. The pillow was placed under my hips, and she moved between my parted legs. She reached over for the lube and squirted a generous dollop on her slender finger. Her other hand returned, trailing her nails around my chest and pinching my nipples.“Keep stroking that cock, you know how much I like watching. It is most likely best not to think of such things. I shall awaken the Fates and that would be most unpleasant for us all."The old woman paced before her fireplace, wringing her hands and occasionally shaking her fist at the ceiling as she continued her muttered tirade of abuse against her own self."Son of a whore! Oh, turn the page, Helen. 'The moving finger having writ moves on... ' And, all that nonsensical, male truth. Again, written by a man. Not that Omar Khayyam is a bad poet. He is. More

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