While I don't know exactly, I took you to be about twenty-five. As you came towards the window each night at 10:20 pm each evening, you looked a few years younger. Those next ten minutes for me were the reason to ignore the cold and damp weather. Each night, as you came close to the glass, your shape accentuated by the soft light behind, your hands began to explore your own body. First your breasts, swollen and full. Then your nipples, stiff and budding. Then your stomach, firm and flat, as you raised the nightgown up. Finally your pussy, smooth and bare.And there, gazing into the night, seeking in the darkness what you could not find during the day, you masturbated yourself to orgasm each night. Your fingers began with your clit, sensitive, and engorged. Your labia was next, swollen, and opening. As juice trickled, your fingers hooked in for lubrication but quickly returned to your clit. And there for five minutes, you repeated your hypnotic rhythm. Five strokes of your clit, three. Except for the blood- red hair, which stood on ends. It contrasted with her graceful get-up perfectly. On Saturdays and Sundays, she spends both mornings in the local children nursery. Volunteering on a weekly basis, she was compelled to get used to the presence of young children since the abortion. Under the advice of her psychiatrist, spending time with the children would speed up the healing, emotionally and mentally. Upon reaching there, Sue equipped herself with a huge smile and bubbly personality. As usual, the children were squealing and screaming all over her. Her being there twice a week was not ever enough for the children. They miss her dearly. Every Sunday, Sue surely had to console a teary- eyed child or two before leaving, assuring them that she would definitely be back the next week. Terrence, a boy of six years, eagerly asked her what they were going to do today. Sue smiled broadly and said, ‘I was thinking about reading you guys a story. I’ve got with me an.
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