I almost was I thought.“Who were?” I asked,“Two women, I heard their groans and stood on the loo to look over the partition and one was on her k...ees sucking the other off!”The hunk I’d been talking too had moved off so we finished our drinks and lead Dawn off to Connies. It’s only a couple of hundred meters from the pub so we walked through the dark gardens my arm around her groping her tits and biting her neck.We got in with no trouble it wasn’t crowded as yet although the smoke machine made. His hand then left my chest and brushed down my navel until it rested just above my cock.I had a funny image in my head at that point of my frightened little dick trying to hide. His hand moved down, his tongue still caressing mine and his other hand running down my back. Finally, both resting on their intended targets, his left on the verge of my ass, and his right cupped over my cock and balls.His kiss broke off, his eyes looking into mine and his right hand squeezing a little. A smile. Edgar Birdwell was an awful poet. There was just no two ways around it.It wasn't only that his language was stilted and clunky, antiquated evenin his own day, or that his themes were self-censored, disguised intortured euphemisms to the point of utter obscurity. He was simply a badwriter. There was a good reason he was self-published. Who else would?Birdwell had an ear with more tin in it than a can.Marcia's fantasy, ex- graduate student of literature that she was, ofrescuing Birdwell from. Every now and then I could see their tongues touch and lick each other. One time however, I was shocked when my sister leaned farther over, grabbing Sandy by the back of the head and started kissing her deep. They actually got into hot a French kiss over my cock and continued to stoke me, I was going nuts. When they separated Vicky told Sandy that she had something else she could taste if she wanted. All Sandy could do was nod and say yes, watching my sister go back to sucking me again. .
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