.. from the book too?” and he said “Yes, but originally from an old poem. About a woman who meets and has sex with a stranger” and I said “Oh,...ok” again.“O Jenny's wet, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry” he said.“From the poem” he said. “Do you like poetry?” and I said “Not really” and he wouldn't let go of the book like he didn't really want me to have it or just didn't want me to take it and leave and then he said “That's too bad. Some poems can be quite... erotic” and suddenly I felt this. A friend talked me into his travel plan to Anna University in Madras, now called Chennai, south India.At first he wanted to go by his old car, luckily custom rules by Iran and India prohibited this plan.We took a bus to Istanbul, the gate to Asia and while waiting for a third travel-mate we saw the city.We got on a next bus to Teheran, had a long wait at the border with a rare clear view on Mount Ararat.We got as sad as all other passengers, students mostly, who feared their fate of becoming. Patti would groan and moa as he thrust into her. Every ten or so thrusts, George would pull out his thick tool despite Patti’s protestations of “ please don’t” or “ no, put it back in” and would push his dick into my mouth. I would slobber all over his dick untill he was fully lubed and he would thrust back into punk rock Patti’s twat to her sighs of contentment.I lay down between them and started lapping up at Patti’s clit as George fucked her, my tongue teasing the little steel ball. Then. I’ll get back to you after I talk with Reg.”“Thanks, anyway, no matter which way it goes. You are a good woman, Frances.”“I am Reg’s good woman, Jessica, and don’t you forget it.”The two left the bedroom and returned downstairs, where Frances was accosted by several other wives. Freda looked the most anxious, so the others waved her to the fore.“Where did you get to, Frances? I was looking for you,” Freda accused.“I was talking with Jessica, in private, Freda. You’ll hear later. What did you.
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