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Trust

Date: 7/17/2015, Categories: BDSM, Shemales, Author: klammer, Rating: 100, Source: xHamster

blush to pleased blush? Her hands slipped down from my waist, and I forgot about blushing as intoxicating sensations spread from her delicate touch, satin on nylon. &#034Do you remember what I... feel, for sissies?&#034 she asked in a murmur, biting my earlobe and pressing her hips against mine, as she stroked my bottom again. She had teleported away again, I discovered when my eyes opened. I sighed. Had she made a promise? Well, at least a suggestion. Gods, do you suppose this is the way women feel, when they start acting incredibly sexy, moving with that incredible grace? When did I get graceful? Better start dinner, k**, it's already eight o'clock. One special of the house, coming up. Not coming up, I realized, almost fifteen minutes later. I can't cook. I mean, there are about half a dozen dishes I can do up wonderfully well. Spaghetti, for instance. That takes all day, though, for the sauce. Nancy had taught me to make Fettucine carbonari. She didn't have any bacon or parmesan cheese. She'd also taught me Mexican. Nit in the fridge. Not even salsa. Plus I could grill any a****l that I could get to hold still long enough. The grill was on the balcony. Never mind. That left altogether not much in my repertoire. Cheese sandwiches. I didn't think that would be a big hit, not for a dinner. Well, I tried. There was chicken in the fridge. I had an idea of how one fried it, so I got that sort of started. Flour and bread crumbs, and some spices, right? It didn't stick too well, ... though. Then I attacked a head of lettuce, subdued it, and dismembered it partially. Some tomatoes and stuff. Frozen beans; they came with directions, and needed nothing but boiling water. Rolls from a can. 'Disaster' is too mild a term. I think part of the trick to cooking, like to lots of other things, is simply confidence. Well, when the chicken fat caught fire, at the same time that smoke started to issue from the oven, I lost my nerve. Water is not a good thing for oil fires, and opening an oven door doesn't do much for the atmosphere, when the rolls are burning. Fat splattered onto the eye where the beans were, and flared up, and I grabbed for the pan in desperation. Any girlish grace I might have once felt evaporated. The smoke alarm began its peculiarly piercing wail, and I added curses as the boiling water from the beans slopped first onto the stove, and then, as I overcorrected, onto my legs. I dropped the pan and danced backward into the table, and the salad bowl toppled onto the floor with a ceramic splintering. &#034What the...! God damn it, Lee, what does it take to get you to ask for help?!&#034 She dashed for the stove, slipping on the beans and salad and slamming a calf into the open oven door. Salt in the fat, then the lid on and the pan off the stove. She whirled, slipped again on the slimy mess covering the floor, and slammed her hip into the table, but she reached the smoke alarm, jerked off the cover, and pulled the battery loose. I managed to get the ...