I work hard. I build things and paint things and get dirty. Sawdust caked on skin smeared with brown and white and black (mostly) that must wear off and be cut out of my hair.
Tempted by Zestos on Ponce driving the big white van and I caught you looking, making no camouflage for your interest in my joy in an awful very non-eco-friendly styrofoam bowl and a thin and bendy really, really red spoon So unlikely to find a smile in Atlanta traffic, but yours was hungry.
Let's block up the road.
I hope I remember to put it in park so the van doesn't leave when I'm turned sideways out the open door one leg over your shoulder to indent a sneaker treadmark on your back, the other braced against the driver's side window frame while you answer my question and spread me wide open. "What goes through your mind when you see a white girl dripping butter scotch sundae down her chin?"
Lap with your full tongue. I want you to suck slow bruises to the surface of my pussy with your mouth. Raw nerves on vibrate. Only soothed when I lay across the ravine between the seats and hang on so you can share in bliss. Slowly enjoy the sticky sliding all the way in and almost all the way out. Take your time, I don't think our fellow travelers are calling the cops -- being entertained on a bright afternoon. You can get transfixed on the gentle rhythm of the light catching on the wet from my snatch as it glistens on your own hard dark...
No? Not what you were thinking?
Tell me. Did it have more to do with stuff dripping on my chin?
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