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issing the side of my neck and nibbling on my ears. That really
gets me going, the ears. It always does. I was still nervous, watching
him, but I also responded to his hands and became wet.
He continued, and I realized that this was his idea of torture.
In retrospect I know it's illogical, but somehow my mind concluded
that this meant he wasn't Charles Manson. I got more and more turned
on, and finally I was fighting the tape out of horny frustration
rather than fear. He kept me going, teasing me, until I was right on
the edge again and stopped. I just couldn't seem to come, but I was
extremely turned on.
He cut the tape behind my back and released my breasts. He began
peeling it off slowly from both sides while standing in front of me;
he was watching my face closely, and as he pulled he made the two
tugging, almost-painful points of detachment move symmetrically toward
my nipples. My breath quickened as they zeroed in. I moaned and closed
my eyes so that I wouldn't be embarrassed by him watching me. Funny
how the mind works sometimes.
He kissed me again. He's a great kisser. The average guy seems to
have a theory that putting his tongue down your throat proves he's a
passionate lover. Not that I have anything against tongues,
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