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Porn as Art
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Porn as Art She took her time getting ready for him. She knew he appreciated it, especially when she did her hair. He loved her hair. He loved her, and found her incredibly beautiful, but her hair? It was perfect. She pulled the thong up her thighs, adjusted it to her ass. "How's it going in there?", he called from the living room. "Almost ready for you", she said. He wasn't being impatient. In fact, he was a very patient man. She was just deliberate about her appearance. Meticulous. She wanted everything to be perfect for him. She debated on whether or not to wear a bra, decided against it, chose a pair of black thigh highs instead. She thought about how much he loved her as she rolled the stockings up her legs. How much she loved him. She would do anything for him. And vice versa. She found her black heels, slid her feet into them, checked herself out in the mirror. She liked what she saw. He would love what she saw. She opened the bedroom door, went to him. He sat in the arm chair, his legs crossed. He looked up at her, gasped. She leaned forward, kissed him softly, then more fervently. His hand reached for her breast, cupped it, squeezed her nipple. It was her turn to gasp. He slid his hand up the inside of her thigh, found her panties, pushed his finger under them. He was surprised at her wetness. She moaned. "Are you ready for the show?", she whispered. "Bring it", he said. She pushed her panties down, exposed her bald sex to him. She walked to the sofa, knelt on it backwards, her legs open, her labia revealed. She leaned back, her hair cascading down her back, her buttocks clenching. He sat in the chair and watched her masturbate. Then he went to her, took her, claimed her as his own. As if there was any doubt.  |
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Monday morning's comment...
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Gorgeous hair for sure
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