Blog 3

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Babes

Blog 6:   Now, where had I got to? Pippa. I don’t know if you remember but when we left Pippa she was slouched on her sofa, legs spread wide, her face the colour of a barely ripe tomato, her breasts heaving and her body all aflutter as the orgasm she had given herself with her rather substantial double ended dildo pulsed through her. And me? I’m the scaredycat who’s been liberally doused in wine, beer and sambuca sat on the other end of the sofa; my eyes fixed on the black rubber member protruding from beneath Pippa’s skirt, my little breasts rising and falling in time with my raggedy breath, my hands shaking as they caress the pale, tender skin of my inner thighs and my pussy aglow, awash, a … a … a … a needy, pulsating, dribbling, furnace of lust. I couldn’t really leave things like that now, could I? And besides, there was a question that had been gnawing away inside me ever since I’d pulled open the kitchen drawer and I knew that if I didn’t ask it soon I was going to burst. “Pippa.” Her orgasm sated eyelids languidly open and with some difficulty she manages to focus on upright, quivering, little me. “Why … why do you have that?” I point a near steady finger at the thick double ended dildo that Pippa’s long, slender, tanned hand is gently probing into what I am absolutely convinced is her happily pulsing pussy, hidden beneath her skirt and hope that my question hasn’t left me sounding like some disapproving, prissy, innocent. “Because … well, you know … for sleepovers … kaçak iddaa and stuff.” My teeth nibble at my bottom lip and my fingers slide along the engorged, sensitised flesh of my vulva as I wobble my head from side to side in an attempt to show incomprehension. “Look, this isn’t the only ‘girls’ night’ I’ve ever had here. Other people come here sometimes too; not just you. And it’s not always movies, PJ’s, hot cocoa and Enid Blyton at bedtime. Sometimes there’s a little more bedroom athletics involved.” And sometimes you reach a point in a conversation where you know you really don’t want to ask the next question, that nothing good will come of it, yet if you don’t ask it you will spend the rest of eternity wondering what the answer might have been. I had to ask. I really did. “Who Pippa? Who have you had on the other end of that?” And now she looks shifty … and I mean really shifty. She’s avoiding eye contact, has stopped massaging her pussy with her rubber dick and is instead picking at the hem of her skirt. “Um … Melanie.” Figures. “And Karen.” Yep. “Together.” Really! “And Tamsin, and Bobbi and Kate.” What! That is just about everybody we know. That’s our ‘gang’ … ‘the girls’ … and I can see us all together; drunkenly eating curry in the Indian, queueing in the rain to get into our favourite nightclub, giggling and gassing as we down shots, check out the tightly trousered talent and bitch about all the ‘slags’ and ‘whores’ parading up and down in “I wouldn’t be seen kaçak bahis dead in that” outfits. Yet all the time Pippa’s been fucking them all except for … I’m scanning through their faces looking for the missing name but Pippa beats me to it. “But mostly Andrea … before she hooked up with John of course.” And then a quick smile plays about Pippa’s lips. “Oh! And a couple of times afterwards too.” And then as an afterthought. “I think I might be a better fuck than John, and Andrea never could quite get enough of ‘Mr Shaft’ so she kept coming back.” Well I could of asked who ‘Mr Shaft’ was but in truth I think the answer was right before my eyes, which really only left me with one question left to ask. “What about me?” “What about sweet, innocent, demure little you?” There is a lascivious glint in Pippa’s eyes and, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was licking her lips like a pussy hungry wolf that has just got Little Red Riding Hood pinned down with her legs akimbo, her petticoats and skirts trapped about her waist and her perfect fairy tale pussy dribbling with anticipation. “You wouldn’t really want any of this naughty, thick, black cock. Not really. Anyway, look …” Pippa slowly slides the dildo from beneath her skirt, a soft squelching accompanying the movement, and holds it aloft, the top third slick with her pussy juices glistening in the lamplight. “… It’s much too big for a little girl like you. See how thick it is; it would stretch your tight pussy unbearably and illegal bahis I doubt if you could even get its head inside you.” “But Andrea is petite like me. In fact she might even be a little smaller than me …” How it hurt for me to say those words; to acknowledge that just possibly Andrea might be even more delicate, slender and diminutive than I; but my need was great and Pippa was waving big, thick, black, rubber temptation right before my eyes. “… And you said that you and she had … you know.” Actually I didn’t quite know what Pippa and Andrea had done with ‘Mr Shaft’, though I had some idea, but I was determined that no matter how much I had to whine, whimper, cajole or beg Pippa was going to show me. “Yes, but you should have heard how much she screamed the first time, how much she pleaded and how sore her poor little pussy was when ‘Mr Shaft’ had finished with her. Here, take him …” Pippa sticks the double ended dildo in my face and I close my fingers around it. Well, I try to but she’s right it is way too big and I have to extract the damp, sticky fingers of my left hand from beneath my skirt and grasp hold of it with both hands. The heady aroma of wet pussy permeates the air; wafting from between my legs, from the juices coating my fingertips and from the cum sheened dildo, creeping its way up my nostrils and into my befuddled, lustful head as Pippa, seemingly unaware, continues to prattle on. “Andrea loved to watch me fuck myself; to marvel as I buried that dick inside my pussy and her eyes would widen as I sucked it, inch by inch, deep within me. She’d sit their dribbling and excitable as I rode that big boy, as my pussy coated it with lovely cum juices until eventually …”

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