Not about his writing, of course. His mind was an hour ahead, already by the poolside. He had worn swimming trunks under his jeans: speedos. He came ...n to the room shelved with books and well lit by two large French windows. You could carry books out onto the terrace, where there was a wrought iron table and loungers, if you wanted. Today, though, the windows were firmly shut. Camille stood at the far end of the room, beyond a big table surrounded by chairs, by a desk scattered with books and. I stepped back and sat down on the chair beside the table. I lifted my leg and placed the heel of my left foot onto the tabletop and spread my legs wide. Slowly, my eyes locked onto his. I moved my hand down and rubbed my fingers between my wet swollen lips, through the thin material of my thong. As I pressed hard against my wet cleft, my fingers pushed my outer labia out of the confines of the tiny yellow thong. He drew a deep breath. Then, he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off his broad. More

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