In my right hand, a tiny pocket rocket finds that mark more often, and just a few seconds of stimulation at this point has you again at the edge. A fe... seconds more, we both know, would push you over. Not yet, mon cher. I find I can tuck the rocket inside of you, and maneuver it with my tongue, the sensations not quite enough to bring your release, but the tiny vibrations still managing to spread and tease and stimulate your now neglected and yearning clit. I listen to your ragged breath, hear. I almost cried when I looked in the mirror.It was me, but I was in the Bobby-Joe's waitress uniform, complete withpinstripes, hat, apron and plastic rocket nametag. It was my ownhandwriting on the nametag, with a heart over the 'i'. My hair was tiedinto a tight bun under my hat, keeping any stray hairs tightly underwraps.I ran my hands along the cheap polyester uniform. It stopped halfway upmy thighs, continuing on as see-through white stockings leading down towhite functional flats."What is. More

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