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My wife then crawled up on the bed and positioned herself above my face. Her skirt trapped her sweet scent as she teased me with her shaved pussy. Keeping it just out of my tongue’s reach. Her fingers traced down my body. Placing my hands on her hips, I pulled her down on my face. ‘Oooooohhhh yes honey, lick my slit.’ Her fingers reached my thong, tracing the vertices bulge. She lowered herself and licked the bulge through the fabric. My tongue swirled over and around her erect clit. I felt her warm breath on my rigid pole as she moved the thong to one side. ‘Mmmm honey, you have been busy. I love your bare cock.’ She licked my nut sack as her hand stroked my shaft. Her tongue swirled up my shaft as her hand rubbed the swollen head. I sucked on her swollen labia, her sweet nectar flowed onto my mouth, trickling down to my chin. Pushing my tongue deep in her honey pot, my wife engulfed my entire length all at once. We both were moaning as we orally pleasured each other. My tongue. M.Truly awful music played from an ancient jukebox. A decrepit postcard taped haphazardly to the register sternly proclaimed:“In God We Trust.All Others Have to PAY!”That card had been taped in place by the owner, who still lived but rarely came around. A formerly rich stockbroker humbled by a serious of disastrous investment schemes, Richard Brooks had used his last remaining savings to buy the diner. He had renovated an old property that he had taken in trade for a long forgotten debt and opened the diner as a hedge against poverty. Over the decades, the diner had provided his best source of support and a boatload of valuable tax deductions. Still, Richard was no nearer the Last Chance this Christmas Eve than he was on any other day. Besides having its own special place in the diner, that warning postcard was the source of unending conversation, none of which came near the boring truth. Sometime in the distant past, it was said, a forgotten short order cook taped it there after an.
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