Ebony smearing my milk over her huge tits

She was like that--a stickler for details. Finally finished, she smiled. "Let's go!" She adjusted the mirror and put the Rav into gear. We were going to start a new life off the grid. Her soft and innocent musical voice accented her thoughts with honey and desire. To me, she sounded like exotic ear-candy. She was more than she seemed and used a different song for every bbw mood and season. When angry, sarcastic sandpaper replaced honey as her words scoured lies and bullshit away from facts until only the unvarnished truth remained.? We met at a local tavern where we developed an unlikely May-December relationship. She played the part of May at the youthful age of thirty-five. I fulfilled the role of Daddy December at the Grandfatherly age of sixty-mumble.? Through the process of elimination, we had become drinking buddies at our local tavern. I'm not sure "buddies" is the correct word. More often than not, we happened to be the last people still standing when the bartender bellowed out, "Last call for alcohol!" Initially, geography was our common bond. The tavern, built in the 1890s, featured a walnut and mahogany bar with an odd little 'L' shaped hook at the far corner of the saloon. The bar and a back wall of brick formed a naturally cozy alcove spacious enough to accommodate three stools. According to local legend, the original owner ordered the hook's construction to allow him to observe activities of untrustworthy bartenders while also keeping an eye on equally unreliable patrons. The voyeur and hermit in me loved the location, and I had it all to myself for several months until the day Darlene arrived. She also loved the strategic observatory. At first, I was annoyed at the invasion of my secret space. After a while, I looked forward to her company. Like commuters sharing an across-town bus, we got used to each other's presence on the installment plan. Familiarity grew comfortable, and silence gave way to conversation as we observed Big Tits the ebb and flow of tavern life. It all started with casual flirting. She flirted. I was casual. Hell, she flirted with everyone: men, women, and even the bartender's mangy tomcat. While I enjoyed the sometimes risqué banter, I never considered Darlene as potential girlfriend material. She was a young vixen, and I was an old wolf. I amused myself by trying to sneak a peek down her blouse or up her skirt when I thought she wouldn't notice. One Friday evening, the stars governing our relationship aligned like the bars on a slot machine. Heads turned as Darlene strutted into the tavern: a blur of legs, cleavage, and the predatory smile of a fox. Her outfit left little to the imagination. Her mini-dress must have been a belt in a previous life, and her tissue-thin blouse was ebony unbuttoned down to her navel. She wore no bra. And then she was kissing bbw me. Passionately. Yet she argued that the vampire problem was of greater import, and did I not owe it to Mjoll? She gasped and groaned. The sensible move would be to leave before the sun becomes Big Tits visible. Before the night was over... “I'm just placing it up here so it doesn't get filthy.” She looks down at Margaret, who's sitting on the toilet seat patiently. Stars burst before my eyes. She’s young; give her a chance to explore the world alone before the burdens of age confine her.” Antoine moved towards the edge of the 3-point ebony line. They will both arrive in a few moments. If I was going to be taught a lesson I was going to enjoy it.