Guys, sorry for the delay!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Food With The Word Gold In It
XXX Sanchez
(The girls I meet speak a language other than ever to understand fully)
Thirty years. Unemployed. Condition that the real cock? Thirty years still looking for a job, a future, even identity. Instead, some people in this age is the end of his career, and the only problem that remains is to invest the millions earned. Soccer players are among those. Must be strong players in Italy. They are beautiful, vigorous, rich, and by impregnating the girls that my neighbor tries to imitate, dancing in front of the television while the lunch hour - when peep through the window - dressed like a slut ready-made fifteen years soon. Few stories. In Italy it works. The players are the winners. The other scratching leftovers. And the unemployed, not even those.
Well said. Thirty years. Unemployed. I came up to Pescara for an interview. With the heron. To become a steward. From Castellammare I had made 5 hours by train to a chat that was resolved in less than ten minutes to let you know the usual. A sentence ridiculous, especially in the case. Because the interviewer had me off after two minutes, but the practice, you know, mica could tell me honestly.
"His accent seems a bit 'too Neapolitan," she says.
"Well, better than Milan," I say peak.
The chick, which was one of those parties, there was bad.
"The feel of something before proceeding. The first three months without pay. It is a full time training period. From nine in the morning until six at night. Will explain the dynamics of the work, including one hundred hours of flight. The training period will take place in Rome, "so he left the miserable, like the easiest thing in the world.
Since I had no one in Rome who could host me, and since I had no money to remain unemployed for three months waiting for me to grant a salary, nor did I intend to get a job to burst the whole evening, I was there to think that I had climbed up to Pescara for nothing.
We were face to face until one of them say something. The chick does not give a fuck about me. It was his. Stop. The role of the parties is cruel. And it is always the case. I'm here to beg for two pounds, she's there with you secure a contract file the nails. After leafing of folders, finally, it comes out: 'We'll let you know. " Closed the door the bitch had forgotten me, my Neapolitan accent, and my pride.
I went down the street. It was seven o'clock in the afternoon. It was cold. Pescara is located close to the Balkans. The heat does not belong to the Mediterranean. I found comfort in a bar. I took a Beks and I sat at a table.
Being unemployed is a fucking situation. But this is nothing compared to the cataclysm that exploded inside me. I was unemployed for almost a year and a half, and I do not want that boredom had nearly led to the asylum? Doing nothing Grippo. If you're not taken seriously the risks of being interned. I was not that I had to do something to force things. I had placed in my mother's house waiting for the events, she separated from it by five years, it was his life, I have mine, and also went out to dinner. No, it was not what I'm obsessed. But the fact that many people believe you're forced to do something to feel alive. And the way that people acted to keep busy, the weather was the real problem. This way to deal with others so cynical, violent and ruthless. I wonder, because persisting so if you win in the end always the bastards, those best prepared to battle? I do not want to be cynical, shit. I realized to succeed too well. When I start to become competitive bastard, unscrupulous, and I win. Because I'm a cut above all in this shit. That's why I prefer to lose. I do too much pain to see me so tanned. Less than become like those who follow the precepts of good family and do whatever they must do to become "good Christians". And even for the "good Christian" are taken. Single station, garage, daily routine for thirty years. not for me. Yet all women choose within these two categories men. The women are all the same: beat box made of a certain age and marry. With one or another of the species is indifferent. Fortunately not ever choose me.
are unlucky. I wanted to be born without a jerk, or three balls, to give greater coherence to my victories and my defeats. From unemployed is also reflected in this. We think a lot of things when you're doing nothing. You look around. And it seem like it's all the same. What are all doing the same things and above all competing for the same things. What are doctors, scholars, sergeants or stewards, looking for a hole in it empty, a house, beautiful to boot, with grateful to folks like the gibbons at the zoo, and a bunch of bananas to slip in the ass. In
bar there are pictures of very ugly with massive gilded frames. I had a deja-vu. I remember one night I was at the opening of an art exhibition. She was my woman, who was expressing a fact. And there was a professor, a professor of Frederick II, which was to open the show with a speech and everything else. He was accompanied by a girl who thought her daughter there, there, until he put his hand on my ass and kissed her mouth. They had thirty years of difference, a little less. But this is not the point. The point is that she was an airhead and I had got fixed. In fact I was the only affordable to the exhibition. The other held up or crutches, or were drunk, or old, or gays. These circles of artists, in fact.
The bitch had eyes slightly flexed and stupid, those who for some strange reason they have sex, and when men lose their heads. I pass by and immediately feel its warmth. The strong mood of her sex. It puts in front of me, next to the partner teacher who introduced the works by making use of the more abstruse language available, so that it assumes a high cultural tone. Tricks that I did not do any more. I hand the case to the chick who adjusts his stocking, and if it pulls up the leg, slowly. It slowly raises his head looked at him. "I do!" I would have screamed. But I did not, unfortunately. Otherwise I would have risked death at the hands of my woman. An artist too jealous for some adventures. Of course you would not understand.
After the applause, there are handshakes and my woman is surrounded by the rest of the gang. The girl takes the time and approached me. The bitch. I pass by, just brushing, pretending to look at a painting, her back to me. I walk over and whisper in his ear: "I want you to be ten times with your tongue, bloody whore ... She did not bat an eyelid. Then I lost control. It was too much. The slipped a hand between her buttocks. That sends a crazy scream loudly. It stops everything. Time, space, airplanes. All there watching us. Including my wife, the artist, which was dedicated exposure. The best time to spring a bitch slap me, violent, and escapes into the arms of the professor / father.
Shortly after my wife approached me, the artist, the jealous, the one who had dedicated the evening, and I spring another slap, tremendous. Incassai. I stared into his eyes, black, and left the gallery without making scenes.
In Naples there is always something to do. I stopped at a bar and bought a bottle of wine. Red. Walking down the street walked to empty it, sip by sip, to reach other places full of people. Some people say Barcelona, \u200b\u200bValencia, that beautiful city. But Naples, Naples is a fucking masterpiece. It is a painting. A work of art, really. From Borgo Marinaro up Mergellina you to stop your heart in your throat so much so beautiful. So I set out, with the city in flames, to the casino of San Pasquale, and maybe somewhere still looking for someone to fan the bottom of the bottle.
Thirty years. Unemployed. Condition that the real cock? Thirty years still looking for a job, a future, even identity. Instead, some people in this age is the end of his career, and the only problem that remains is to invest the millions earned. Soccer players are among those. Must be strong players in Italy. They are beautiful, vigorous, rich, and by impregnating the girls that my neighbor tries to imitate, dancing in front of the television while the lunch hour - when peep through the window - dressed like a slut ready-made fifteen years soon. Few stories. In Italy it works. The players are the winners. The other scratching leftovers. And the unemployed, not even those.
Well said. Thirty years. Unemployed. I came up to Pescara for an interview. With the heron. To become a steward. From Castellammare I had made 5 hours by train to a chat that was resolved in less than ten minutes to let you know the usual. A sentence ridiculous, especially in the case. Because the interviewer had me off after two minutes, but the practice, you know, mica could tell me honestly.
"His accent seems a bit 'too Neapolitan," she says.
"Well, better than Milan," I say peak.
The chick, which was one of those parties, there was bad.
"The feel of something before proceeding. The first three months without pay. It is a full time training period. From nine in the morning until six at night. Will explain the dynamics of the work, including one hundred hours of flight. The training period will take place in Rome, "so he left the miserable, like the easiest thing in the world.
Since I had no one in Rome who could host me, and since I had no money to remain unemployed for three months waiting for me to grant a salary, nor did I intend to get a job to burst the whole evening, I was there to think that I had climbed up to Pescara for nothing.
We were face to face until one of them say something. The chick does not give a fuck about me. It was his. Stop. The role of the parties is cruel. And it is always the case. I'm here to beg for two pounds, she's there with you secure a contract file the nails. After leafing of folders, finally, it comes out: 'We'll let you know. " Closed the door the bitch had forgotten me, my Neapolitan accent, and my pride.
I went down the street. It was seven o'clock in the afternoon. It was cold. Pescara is located close to the Balkans. The heat does not belong to the Mediterranean. I found comfort in a bar. I took a Beks and I sat at a table.
Being unemployed is a fucking situation. But this is nothing compared to the cataclysm that exploded inside me. I was unemployed for almost a year and a half, and I do not want that boredom had nearly led to the asylum? Doing nothing Grippo. If you're not taken seriously the risks of being interned. I was not that I had to do something to force things. I had placed in my mother's house waiting for the events, she separated from it by five years, it was his life, I have mine, and also went out to dinner. No, it was not what I'm obsessed. But the fact that many people believe you're forced to do something to feel alive. And the way that people acted to keep busy, the weather was the real problem. This way to deal with others so cynical, violent and ruthless. I wonder, because persisting so if you win in the end always the bastards, those best prepared to battle? I do not want to be cynical, shit. I realized to succeed too well. When I start to become competitive bastard, unscrupulous, and I win. Because I'm a cut above all in this shit. That's why I prefer to lose. I do too much pain to see me so tanned. Less than become like those who follow the precepts of good family and do whatever they must do to become "good Christians". And even for the "good Christian" are taken. Single station, garage, daily routine for thirty years. not for me. Yet all women choose within these two categories men. The women are all the same: beat box made of a certain age and marry. With one or another of the species is indifferent. Fortunately not ever choose me.
are unlucky. I wanted to be born without a jerk, or three balls, to give greater coherence to my victories and my defeats. From unemployed is also reflected in this. We think a lot of things when you're doing nothing. You look around. And it seem like it's all the same. What are all doing the same things and above all competing for the same things. What are doctors, scholars, sergeants or stewards, looking for a hole in it empty, a house, beautiful to boot, with grateful to folks like the gibbons at the zoo, and a bunch of bananas to slip in the ass. In
bar there are pictures of very ugly with massive gilded frames. I had a deja-vu. I remember one night I was at the opening of an art exhibition. She was my woman, who was expressing a fact. And there was a professor, a professor of Frederick II, which was to open the show with a speech and everything else. He was accompanied by a girl who thought her daughter there, there, until he put his hand on my ass and kissed her mouth. They had thirty years of difference, a little less. But this is not the point. The point is that she was an airhead and I had got fixed. In fact I was the only affordable to the exhibition. The other held up or crutches, or were drunk, or old, or gays. These circles of artists, in fact.
The bitch had eyes slightly flexed and stupid, those who for some strange reason they have sex, and when men lose their heads. I pass by and immediately feel its warmth. The strong mood of her sex. It puts in front of me, next to the partner teacher who introduced the works by making use of the more abstruse language available, so that it assumes a high cultural tone. Tricks that I did not do any more. I hand the case to the chick who adjusts his stocking, and if it pulls up the leg, slowly. It slowly raises his head looked at him. "I do!" I would have screamed. But I did not, unfortunately. Otherwise I would have risked death at the hands of my woman. An artist too jealous for some adventures. Of course you would not understand.
After the applause, there are handshakes and my woman is surrounded by the rest of the gang. The girl takes the time and approached me. The bitch. I pass by, just brushing, pretending to look at a painting, her back to me. I walk over and whisper in his ear: "I want you to be ten times with your tongue, bloody whore ... She did not bat an eyelid. Then I lost control. It was too much. The slipped a hand between her buttocks. That sends a crazy scream loudly. It stops everything. Time, space, airplanes. All there watching us. Including my wife, the artist, which was dedicated exposure. The best time to spring a bitch slap me, violent, and escapes into the arms of the professor / father.
Shortly after my wife approached me, the artist, the jealous, the one who had dedicated the evening, and I spring another slap, tremendous. Incassai. I stared into his eyes, black, and left the gallery without making scenes.
In Naples there is always something to do. I stopped at a bar and bought a bottle of wine. Red. Walking down the street walked to empty it, sip by sip, to reach other places full of people. Some people say Barcelona, \u200b\u200bValencia, that beautiful city. But Naples, Naples is a fucking masterpiece. It is a painting. A work of art, really. From Borgo Marinaro up Mergellina you to stop your heart in your throat so much so beautiful. So I set out, with the city in flames, to the casino of San Pasquale, and maybe somewhere still looking for someone to fan the bottom of the bottle.
What Kind Of Fondant Does Buddy Use?
FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW MYSTIC Stefano Moraschetti
now the snow was falling more than mild and the wind had stopped howling among the clefts and gorges of the mountain.
silently stared at my climbing partner in the eye, how many adventures we shared together, even as much as passion and stubbornness and ruthlessness we were bound. We were united as brothers, as if among us there was a knot climbing, one of those nodes to which we so often entrusted our life.
Those eyes, how many times I had accompanied him, had watched over my steps and saw the danger that loomed over me.
calmly walked out of the tent, the muscles were only a deep sleep and when I sat back upright I heard crackling, like ice under the weight of my body broke.
Ten days, so had passed since the last time I heard the crisp air on my face without it was hit by the ice pulled from the wind. Ten days of closed walls of canvas and huddled in blankets, trying in every way to maintain acceptable body temperature
I had thought of going crazy, I never really believed that could happen to me and my friend could get stuck and can never be achieved for so long.
The first days were passed as a joke, we were on our unconscious sarcasm sure everything would be over quickly, then after the third day all of a sudden had become more difficult, even seemed that the blood was like water in his veins, not We had more strength, the food began to be rationed out of the tent and the mountain screaming and mocked us.
what was hard. What had been difficult. Yet now it was all over, I felt stronger, I passed the wall that had been placed in front of me, of course, I could not forget that he had beside me a true friend, I was only thanks to him managed to resist, if I had been alone I could not have anything against the inevitable death that the sky had chosen for me.
Feeling under the boots on the soft blanket of snow still observed a second, as was harmless, when it was, lying on the ground and distributed in the mountains like powdered sugar on a big cake. Think of sweet
always creates a hole in my stomach, I watched the tent, took a piece of meat with the addentai heat, cold and had not yet clotted blood formed a small stream that trickled down my chin.
a second I was still as a statue of ice, then I bent down, took the arm of my companion's head and walked toward the summit. We were stuck
only three hours from the summit, after being so close for so long no one could give up to reach the summit.
I left all things unnecessary to the camp, tents, backpacks, crampons, ice axes, ropes, arms, legs, those now useless.
After just over two and a half hours I ended up watching from the north face, the sight that presented itself to me was fascinating, I had the world at my feet, I turned to the direction from which I came, the curtain is not saw it was remained hidden by the snow, but a thin red line went up to the ridge and stopped at my feet forming a shapeless stain. Along the last vertebrae
still dripping blood, I was not able to shear net of the spine and this still hung like a long tail from the head of my companion.
calmly picked up my ideas and my own weight in fresh arm jumped into the void that opened up before me.
In the distance I seemed to feel the mountain laughing as I fell to never to rise again, only footsteps behind me, footprints in the snow.
silently stared at my climbing partner in the eye, how many adventures we shared together, even as much as passion and stubbornness and ruthlessness we were bound. We were united as brothers, as if among us there was a knot climbing, one of those nodes to which we so often entrusted our life.
Those eyes, how many times I had accompanied him, had watched over my steps and saw the danger that loomed over me.
calmly walked out of the tent, the muscles were only a deep sleep and when I sat back upright I heard crackling, like ice under the weight of my body broke.
Ten days, so had passed since the last time I heard the crisp air on my face without it was hit by the ice pulled from the wind. Ten days of closed walls of canvas and huddled in blankets, trying in every way to maintain acceptable body temperature
I had thought of going crazy, I never really believed that could happen to me and my friend could get stuck and can never be achieved for so long.
The first days were passed as a joke, we were on our unconscious sarcasm sure everything would be over quickly, then after the third day all of a sudden had become more difficult, even seemed that the blood was like water in his veins, not We had more strength, the food began to be rationed out of the tent and the mountain screaming and mocked us.
what was hard. What had been difficult. Yet now it was all over, I felt stronger, I passed the wall that had been placed in front of me, of course, I could not forget that he had beside me a true friend, I was only thanks to him managed to resist, if I had been alone I could not have anything against the inevitable death that the sky had chosen for me.
Feeling under the boots on the soft blanket of snow still observed a second, as was harmless, when it was, lying on the ground and distributed in the mountains like powdered sugar on a big cake. Think of sweet
always creates a hole in my stomach, I watched the tent, took a piece of meat with the addentai heat, cold and had not yet clotted blood formed a small stream that trickled down my chin.
a second I was still as a statue of ice, then I bent down, took the arm of my companion's head and walked toward the summit. We were stuck
only three hours from the summit, after being so close for so long no one could give up to reach the summit.
I left all things unnecessary to the camp, tents, backpacks, crampons, ice axes, ropes, arms, legs, those now useless.
After just over two and a half hours I ended up watching from the north face, the sight that presented itself to me was fascinating, I had the world at my feet, I turned to the direction from which I came, the curtain is not saw it was remained hidden by the snow, but a thin red line went up to the ridge and stopped at my feet forming a shapeless stain. Along the last vertebrae
still dripping blood, I was not able to shear net of the spine and this still hung like a long tail from the head of my companion.
calmly picked up my ideas and my own weight in fresh arm jumped into the void that opened up before me.
In the distance I seemed to feel the mountain laughing as I fell to never to rise again, only footsteps behind me, footprints in the snow.
Getting Rid Of Camel Toe In Spandex
EJACULATION Mark Smorra
could not understand of what was happening. Maureen was sitting at the side chair, with the pea straight, so fraught that it appears unnatural phenomenon.
was nearly midnight and the evening spent drinking wine seasoned with haunting useless conversations with friends, acquaintances, occupied their brains in the area of \u200b\u200bshort-term memories, that a good night's sleep would have completely erased.
Now he was standing and what was happening to her could fill the pages of its most pathetically poetic diary. Grace wrote down everything that happened in those fucking his notebooks, when, at thirteen, he read the 'Diary of Anne Frank'. He decided that his daily pain was worthy of record, comparable to that of a teenager which had been torn the disembowelment life as a slow and meticulous, without anesthesia.
The work of persuasion had succeeded brilliantly in Mauritius:
"Come on, let me go to you, only five minutes!. Time to talk a little more 'and then go away. "
"No, come on ... has been done later, we can see each other tomorrow."
"As you wish, but it is a sin."
"Ok, but only five minutes." Meanwhile Maurizio
stroked her hair, with a delicacy and a sensuality that she, in her whole life, and had only rarely been able to enjoy in solitude. As in those few nights that the result was really hard not to consume the clitoris with the middle finger of his left hand, small and wiry.
He felt such an attraction to a male, since in high school had fallen in love with Joseph, a beautiful young man with teeth perfect, head of the class, always in order, with such a consensus among peers who already Dall'Ora was clear to all that an adult would have occupied without difficulty, the chair of Mayor Casamale.
Mauritius had no desire to meet again, he had only wanted to play with the curious figure of a woman. He did not mean disrespect, but have a virgin in front of thirty-seven years, excited him so much. Grace, meanwhile, could smell the youth of Mauritius and the smell was so strong as to undermine all the precepts swallowed up in thirty years of devotion to the parish in the country.
Mauri, so everyone called him, was twenty-six, handsome, smart look. He had a bevy of girls who continued to look for him, despite his lack of interest in the relationship binding. This grace had found the continuing phone calls during the evening, followed by his refusal to warmly:
"No Claire, tonight there are, are out with friends." "Maybe tomorrow, Anna, how? ... Ah ... sorry Anna tonight I want to return home soon." And formalities like that.
That night Grace was dressed up for the best opportunities. It was a very young girl treated, waxed and polished, that rivals the best with photoshop retouching, scent, so you do not need expensive fragrances to saturate the area of \u200b\u200bcourtship. Its well preserved body, avoiding care to get my license, because he preferred to walk. In reality would never be able to overcome the trauma of the first engine shutdown for lack of experience in the use of the clutch.
After the first kiss, that Mauri had managed to tear easily, the cock was hard enough to feel right to unbutton the pants to extract his wares. Grace stared at the nerve and blushed, not for size but for the ease with which I had checked out.
The House of Grace was pervaded by a smell, not bad, but that he knew of old age. His had died seven years ago, not far from each other, but she had not dared to touch anything in that home nothing but the dust accumulated on relics, removed daily meticulousness. He continued to sleep in his cramped room, which once shared with her sister, now married for five years. Maurice did not notice the atmosphere of antiques, otherwise it would run away. He was so afraid of death and old age than nothing, if she recognized the smell of stale, he would have held in that house.
Grace, in that embarrassing situation, he wanted to get rid of the Moors in a second, then run to his room to pray the subheading madrevergine to invoke forgiveness. But it was too late, he knew that would not be able to get rid of him so easily. It was too excited to pull the fuck out of that chair.
effusions who exchanged a fight that seemed more a courtship, but it was not difficult to unbutton the white shirt, which came as soon as the navel. The exposed flesh of Grace had a really good smell excited Mauritius. The thirty-seven years of adolescence, the woman had canceled his modesty.
Mauritius, as excited by that situation, he felt some sympathy for her. Sniffed his embarrassment, the delicacy of her no, do you plan, but it was late now, he could not throw her night without being able to empty the balls of his precious liquid. With one click
harmonious Mauri managed to hang it on the sofa and arm with its heavy body. He was trying to be gentle, but had somehow ammansuetirla. The skirt of cotton Thanks to leave now instead of lace panties which no one managed to guess the color. Grace had refrained from lighting throughout the house, turning on only the small lamp placed on a table beside the chair. Did not want to close that some might imagine that he was hosting someone, perhaps a man, at that time of night. You, devoted to verginemaria, could not fail to respect the mourning that plagued her house!.
But it was upon the Moors, with its nerve pressed between the labia majora. Included his vexed excitement, so much so that he felt his cock press against a damp sponge soap and water. Grace continued to reject it but the pleasure of the saliva to the brain, but was unable to completely get rid of the precepts that continue to give an extraordinary force in the small left hand, which protected the nerve from its vigorous sex of Mauritius.
After a quarter of an hour of attempts Mauri decided to change strategy and concentrated his forces trying to push the head of Grace at the height of pea. In a brutal twist Mauri won the repulsion nerve in the neck of grace, bringing them closer to the pea to his lips. She, despite being upset, approached the mouth of the glans, but with a movement similar to that of a dove to grips with a crumb of bread is too big for the little beak.
After half an hour they were both exhausted. Grace's face was contorted. Alternate a look of fear in small smiles. He felt disgusted, but it seemed enough, so that it can settle and sink into a peaceful sleep, preceded by a fast mechanical attodidolore. But
Mauri absolutely no intention of leaving the house of the virgin. There were ten minutes of respite. And he noticed the face of Grace rapture. She was two feet away from him, with his legs tightly closed, but discovered, and the right breast was flooded by the bra. Mauri
looked and the nerve was throbbing with excitement. With her hand still, rather than looking for her, to calm the anxiety that the rhythmic swell your chest. A Grace had been short-sighted glasses glued to his face, that magnified his eyes, which gave her an air of even more innocent. A feeling of guilt invaded the soul of Mauritius. Why should he continue to pollute the young and delicate woman. He was sure that Grace would take months to digest that night. But the predominant
instinct and gave him new enthusiasm at a moment's jumped on him again. But this time he began astride on his stomach and clasped hands with his strong left hand. Grace did not understand what was happening to her and Maurice, after having tied up, began to masturbate with your right. She said: "What are you doing?. Stop by!. I do not like you're doing well. " But the vibrating motion of the hand imprint of Mauritius had taken possession of his conscience and stared at the glowing face of Grace that he could not take my eyes off the nerve of Mauritius. He mumbled little moans, he knew that would come a little later, such was the excitement. Before the latest rounds seated to the nerve, it arched up to hit the pea in the face of Grace, and his hand rhythmically hitting his chin Grace. Yeah, yeah, oh yeah ... .... ... Ahhh!
He was in the face with a force that would be remembered for his entire life. His seed sprang forth on the face of powerful grace, inondala lips, face up, until the glasses. In final moments leading up to ejaculation, Grace seemed to hiss a groan of pleasure, but Mauro was not sure I heard it. Grace's face is colored with a strange expression, that it was neither of disgust or pleasure, but similar to satisfaction. After coming Mauri lay down on the body of Grace to cover it completely. Her hands, now free from the grip, is lavished in an embrace so strong that Mauro could not believe that such a frail body could unleash such force.
They remained in that posture, unarmed, for nearly ten minutes, after which Mauri got up the nerve and composed herself hiding in his underwear, now reduced to nothing. Grace did not say a word and ran his hand on his face, testing the liquid substance that covered and swallowed with effort, dry throat, it seemed as if he were testing the seed Mauri.
Mauritius had been covered. A feeling of anxiety came upon him, while trying to guess the thoughts of Grace. He told her, knowing that what he said would never happen: "I'm late has been done, we feel tomorrow." She did not say a word.
Maurice came out of his house, a nice little 'upset. Descending the stairs he faced the grave of the building, dimly lit, which contained the statue of the Virgin, which had not previously noticed. He stood for a moment to observe and then, almost without knowing it account, made the sign of the cross, and recited an act of sorrow, wrong even by replacing the words 'more' with 'and more because I have offended ...'
Grace was lying on the couch. He still had the marks on the face of ejaculation. Now she was alone. He was laughing, while two small tears gushed that evaporate before reaching the neck. But he felt free, like a weight lifted, but that relief was not due to the absence of Mauri.
He heard the door of the building close. Is going to the window, pulled back the curtains and saw a little boy with his head down toward the exit of the avenue he sighed, "See you soon my little one, thank you."
was nearly midnight and the evening spent drinking wine seasoned with haunting useless conversations with friends, acquaintances, occupied their brains in the area of \u200b\u200bshort-term memories, that a good night's sleep would have completely erased.
Now he was standing and what was happening to her could fill the pages of its most pathetically poetic diary. Grace wrote down everything that happened in those fucking his notebooks, when, at thirteen, he read the 'Diary of Anne Frank'. He decided that his daily pain was worthy of record, comparable to that of a teenager which had been torn the disembowelment life as a slow and meticulous, without anesthesia.
The work of persuasion had succeeded brilliantly in Mauritius:
"Come on, let me go to you, only five minutes!. Time to talk a little more 'and then go away. "
"No, come on ... has been done later, we can see each other tomorrow."
"As you wish, but it is a sin."
"Ok, but only five minutes." Meanwhile Maurizio
stroked her hair, with a delicacy and a sensuality that she, in her whole life, and had only rarely been able to enjoy in solitude. As in those few nights that the result was really hard not to consume the clitoris with the middle finger of his left hand, small and wiry.
He felt such an attraction to a male, since in high school had fallen in love with Joseph, a beautiful young man with teeth perfect, head of the class, always in order, with such a consensus among peers who already Dall'Ora was clear to all that an adult would have occupied without difficulty, the chair of Mayor Casamale.
Mauritius had no desire to meet again, he had only wanted to play with the curious figure of a woman. He did not mean disrespect, but have a virgin in front of thirty-seven years, excited him so much. Grace, meanwhile, could smell the youth of Mauritius and the smell was so strong as to undermine all the precepts swallowed up in thirty years of devotion to the parish in the country.
Mauri, so everyone called him, was twenty-six, handsome, smart look. He had a bevy of girls who continued to look for him, despite his lack of interest in the relationship binding. This grace had found the continuing phone calls during the evening, followed by his refusal to warmly:
"No Claire, tonight there are, are out with friends." "Maybe tomorrow, Anna, how? ... Ah ... sorry Anna tonight I want to return home soon." And formalities like that.
That night Grace was dressed up for the best opportunities. It was a very young girl treated, waxed and polished, that rivals the best with photoshop retouching, scent, so you do not need expensive fragrances to saturate the area of \u200b\u200bcourtship. Its well preserved body, avoiding care to get my license, because he preferred to walk. In reality would never be able to overcome the trauma of the first engine shutdown for lack of experience in the use of the clutch.
After the first kiss, that Mauri had managed to tear easily, the cock was hard enough to feel right to unbutton the pants to extract his wares. Grace stared at the nerve and blushed, not for size but for the ease with which I had checked out.
The House of Grace was pervaded by a smell, not bad, but that he knew of old age. His had died seven years ago, not far from each other, but she had not dared to touch anything in that home nothing but the dust accumulated on relics, removed daily meticulousness. He continued to sleep in his cramped room, which once shared with her sister, now married for five years. Maurice did not notice the atmosphere of antiques, otherwise it would run away. He was so afraid of death and old age than nothing, if she recognized the smell of stale, he would have held in that house.
Grace, in that embarrassing situation, he wanted to get rid of the Moors in a second, then run to his room to pray the subheading madrevergine to invoke forgiveness. But it was too late, he knew that would not be able to get rid of him so easily. It was too excited to pull the fuck out of that chair.
effusions who exchanged a fight that seemed more a courtship, but it was not difficult to unbutton the white shirt, which came as soon as the navel. The exposed flesh of Grace had a really good smell excited Mauritius. The thirty-seven years of adolescence, the woman had canceled his modesty.
Mauritius, as excited by that situation, he felt some sympathy for her. Sniffed his embarrassment, the delicacy of her no, do you plan, but it was late now, he could not throw her night without being able to empty the balls of his precious liquid. With one click
harmonious Mauri managed to hang it on the sofa and arm with its heavy body. He was trying to be gentle, but had somehow ammansuetirla. The skirt of cotton Thanks to leave now instead of lace panties which no one managed to guess the color. Grace had refrained from lighting throughout the house, turning on only the small lamp placed on a table beside the chair. Did not want to close that some might imagine that he was hosting someone, perhaps a man, at that time of night. You, devoted to verginemaria, could not fail to respect the mourning that plagued her house!.
But it was upon the Moors, with its nerve pressed between the labia majora. Included his vexed excitement, so much so that he felt his cock press against a damp sponge soap and water. Grace continued to reject it but the pleasure of the saliva to the brain, but was unable to completely get rid of the precepts that continue to give an extraordinary force in the small left hand, which protected the nerve from its vigorous sex of Mauritius.
After a quarter of an hour of attempts Mauri decided to change strategy and concentrated his forces trying to push the head of Grace at the height of pea. In a brutal twist Mauri won the repulsion nerve in the neck of grace, bringing them closer to the pea to his lips. She, despite being upset, approached the mouth of the glans, but with a movement similar to that of a dove to grips with a crumb of bread is too big for the little beak.
After half an hour they were both exhausted. Grace's face was contorted. Alternate a look of fear in small smiles. He felt disgusted, but it seemed enough, so that it can settle and sink into a peaceful sleep, preceded by a fast mechanical attodidolore. But
Mauri absolutely no intention of leaving the house of the virgin. There were ten minutes of respite. And he noticed the face of Grace rapture. She was two feet away from him, with his legs tightly closed, but discovered, and the right breast was flooded by the bra. Mauri
looked and the nerve was throbbing with excitement. With her hand still, rather than looking for her, to calm the anxiety that the rhythmic swell your chest. A Grace had been short-sighted glasses glued to his face, that magnified his eyes, which gave her an air of even more innocent. A feeling of guilt invaded the soul of Mauritius. Why should he continue to pollute the young and delicate woman. He was sure that Grace would take months to digest that night. But the predominant
instinct and gave him new enthusiasm at a moment's jumped on him again. But this time he began astride on his stomach and clasped hands with his strong left hand. Grace did not understand what was happening to her and Maurice, after having tied up, began to masturbate with your right. She said: "What are you doing?. Stop by!. I do not like you're doing well. " But the vibrating motion of the hand imprint of Mauritius had taken possession of his conscience and stared at the glowing face of Grace that he could not take my eyes off the nerve of Mauritius. He mumbled little moans, he knew that would come a little later, such was the excitement. Before the latest rounds seated to the nerve, it arched up to hit the pea in the face of Grace, and his hand rhythmically hitting his chin Grace. Yeah, yeah, oh yeah ... .... ... Ahhh!
He was in the face with a force that would be remembered for his entire life. His seed sprang forth on the face of powerful grace, inondala lips, face up, until the glasses. In final moments leading up to ejaculation, Grace seemed to hiss a groan of pleasure, but Mauro was not sure I heard it. Grace's face is colored with a strange expression, that it was neither of disgust or pleasure, but similar to satisfaction. After coming Mauri lay down on the body of Grace to cover it completely. Her hands, now free from the grip, is lavished in an embrace so strong that Mauro could not believe that such a frail body could unleash such force.
They remained in that posture, unarmed, for nearly ten minutes, after which Mauri got up the nerve and composed herself hiding in his underwear, now reduced to nothing. Grace did not say a word and ran his hand on his face, testing the liquid substance that covered and swallowed with effort, dry throat, it seemed as if he were testing the seed Mauri.
Mauritius had been covered. A feeling of anxiety came upon him, while trying to guess the thoughts of Grace. He told her, knowing that what he said would never happen: "I'm late has been done, we feel tomorrow." She did not say a word.
Maurice came out of his house, a nice little 'upset. Descending the stairs he faced the grave of the building, dimly lit, which contained the statue of the Virgin, which had not previously noticed. He stood for a moment to observe and then, almost without knowing it account, made the sign of the cross, and recited an act of sorrow, wrong even by replacing the words 'more' with 'and more because I have offended ...'
Grace was lying on the couch. He still had the marks on the face of ejaculation. Now she was alone. He was laughing, while two small tears gushed that evaporate before reaching the neck. But he felt free, like a weight lifted, but that relief was not due to the absence of Mauri.
He heard the door of the building close. Is going to the window, pulled back the curtains and saw a little boy with his head down toward the exit of the avenue he sighed, "See you soon my little one, thank you."
When Will The Tahoe Body Change
COVERS Corrado Izzo
fruit Francis Trombadori The hunting season by Andrea Camilleri, Sellerio Publisher Palermo.
Cape Cod Morning by Edward Hopper by West of Rome by John Fante, Fazi Editore.
Night Hawks by Edward Hopper's always about the other night will you come? Philippe Besson, Bloomsbury Publishing Editor.
Oil on Canvas by Jack Vettriano Eyes closed Gianrico Carofiglio Sellerio Publisher Palermo.
I do not read books. I collect covers.
even read them, because I write a note incipit for the publishing house. If any author under contract is difficult to start a new story, he turns to me. Of books, so I fed up, if only hair I had them there.
The covers, however, I draw, I can not help it. So I want to tell a true story.
On 5 December 2002 I was standing near the cash of the Feltrinelli Via San Tommaso d'Aquino. I was going to pay the bell'Antonio Vitaliano Brancati - Oscar Mondadori. On the cover a photo from the film in 1960 directed by Mauro Bolognini. Close up on the magnificent back
Claudia Cardinale, which is in contrast to the pensive face of Marcello Mastroianni. From
consummate actress, she chose that moment to enter the scene, set foot in the library. I wanted to tell her that I was happy to see her, that I admired so much. I remembered well his appearances in The Deal on Madonna Street, The Leopard, The Girl of Bebo, but where I really liked was American film with Rock Hudson can not remember the title, in which she wore a dazzling two-piece orange.
Yes, Ursula Andress was beautiful in her white bikini, but nothing to do with her class, Ms. Cardinale. Because if a woman is beautiful and also has more class, well then there is no competition and this is the best a man could want. In his elegant
tallieur - pants, surrounded by the library director and employees all their compliments graciously smiled.
I got closer and I wanted to at least say hello. But I did not, and perhaps was better. Clumsy as I am, I would definitely excited. And who knows how many times people said things even more beautiful than mine.
So this is a little story, Your Eminence, but true. Finally, if I were to give in to temptation and put together the opening words, giving shape to "my book in the drawer," two things are certain: the title no end, and the cover, her beautiful back, but omitting the face Marcello Mastroianni. You can not look away, if beauty is before our eyes.
Cape Cod Morning by Edward Hopper by West of Rome by John Fante, Fazi Editore.
Night Hawks by Edward Hopper's always about the other night will you come? Philippe Besson, Bloomsbury Publishing Editor.
Oil on Canvas by Jack Vettriano Eyes closed Gianrico Carofiglio Sellerio Publisher Palermo.
I do not read books. I collect covers.
even read them, because I write a note incipit for the publishing house. If any author under contract is difficult to start a new story, he turns to me. Of books, so I fed up, if only hair I had them there.
The covers, however, I draw, I can not help it. So I want to tell a true story.
On 5 December 2002 I was standing near the cash of the Feltrinelli Via San Tommaso d'Aquino. I was going to pay the bell'Antonio Vitaliano Brancati - Oscar Mondadori. On the cover a photo from the film in 1960 directed by Mauro Bolognini. Close up on the magnificent back
Claudia Cardinale, which is in contrast to the pensive face of Marcello Mastroianni. From
consummate actress, she chose that moment to enter the scene, set foot in the library. I wanted to tell her that I was happy to see her, that I admired so much. I remembered well his appearances in The Deal on Madonna Street, The Leopard, The Girl of Bebo, but where I really liked was American film with Rock Hudson can not remember the title, in which she wore a dazzling two-piece orange.
Yes, Ursula Andress was beautiful in her white bikini, but nothing to do with her class, Ms. Cardinale. Because if a woman is beautiful and also has more class, well then there is no competition and this is the best a man could want. In his elegant
tallieur - pants, surrounded by the library director and employees all their compliments graciously smiled.
I got closer and I wanted to at least say hello. But I did not, and perhaps was better. Clumsy as I am, I would definitely excited. And who knows how many times people said things even more beautiful than mine.
So this is a little story, Your Eminence, but true. Finally, if I were to give in to temptation and put together the opening words, giving shape to "my book in the drawer," two things are certain: the title no end, and the cover, her beautiful back, but omitting the face Marcello Mastroianni. You can not look away, if beauty is before our eyes.
Graphics Tablet With Corel
maybe God ATE HIS MOTHER Marco Baldini
I am 48 years that people look at me and make faces. Sometimes he laughs. I prefer it because at least I make them happy. However, that is, not that I'm happy eh.
are ugly. Weight 152 kg, I've got holes in my face for acne, sudo like a sponge as well if there are 2 ° C (ghiacciolini I will do sometimes) and stink like a pig.
People always react well when I see: eyes wide, she raises an eyebrow, if there is no time before or close to the friend that is in the company, or laughs or shakes his head.
mean, I'm not a monster. But I've got used to it now. Me me me like me eh, not no. I am still a creature of God, so I'm looking the same. Mica God can create something that is ugly, that is, is not really possible.
But sometimes I wondered if by chance, but by chance eh, God does not like me. I figured if God sees me and laughs in his face him well, that is, as I would take it?
Maybe I give a damn about him as well, so I've got used to it now. I likes me for me anyway, heh.
However, that is strange. God created me and then not even like me? But stupid is mica? So like me by force, not fool God is also the priests
But look at me strange when I'm going to confess. In fact, even make them tell me the sins to me, and not even the Act of Contrition, I now perform immediately. To love, to me it makes me comfortable as well, I am ashamed to say those things to good people. And then it ends up that I do not want to confess anymore.
The priests in my opinion because I do so worthwhile. They think like "Poor man, and has the all the misfortunes, my goodness, I now absolve now, so an unlucky there may have too many sins on my conscience." In my opinion they do so, but I did not say why it ends up that then accuse them of making preferences and does not go well, because men are all the same eh, even if some of them in front of people turn up their nose. Even the priests, but they do it because you dislike, not because they suck.
But my mother was different. She smiled at me always, even when I did a shit on me because I did not have time to get to the toilet. Even when you fart during dinner or when guests were.
Even when I killed her, smiling.
Yes, I killed my mother. But I did it on purpose, I swear. The
wanted to make a joke, a silly joke, just for laugh. I had put a powder in spicy soup, as well, to laugh, eh, and she could not eat spicy things. The
He took a shot, as I smiled. A shock condom, or whatever you call that thing ugly, and fell with his face in the soup.
I thought you wanted to avenge the joke and I wanted to do one herself. He wanted to pretend that he was kin. And I laughed too and I to the joke. But
not get up, his head did not move anymore. And then I realized it was really dead. But who knew that if I ate the soup cracks? I just wanted to make her laugh a little '!
I was scared. I thought they sent me to jail, saying, "He killed his mother, poor woman, that wayward child," and things like that. So I should not let anyone know she was dead, her.
It was not hard because we lived so much alone. Dad I never knew, I heard that she left us she was pregnant with me. So the first thing that came to mind was the thing to hide it better I could do.
ate it, piece by piece. So I had lunch yet. It was good, he knew of meat like that of animals, her. And ate it all, he was so lean, not as I was.
instead threw the bones, not me I could eat them. And all I said was that game and that had left me alone, so I worked as a clerk.
But to me I was sorry that I killed her. And I could not even confess to the priests because I now immediately absolved.
Sometimes I think God does not like me. As I said, I know, but when mom comes to my mind I think about it forever. Maybe God has allowed me to eat well because I had something good on the body. Something with a nice smile over.
Who knows if I even ate his soul, or God if it is taken before me. To me I would have liked to stay with me.Così least I felt less alone, I do.
are ugly. Weight 152 kg, I've got holes in my face for acne, sudo like a sponge as well if there are 2 ° C (ghiacciolini I will do sometimes) and stink like a pig.
People always react well when I see: eyes wide, she raises an eyebrow, if there is no time before or close to the friend that is in the company, or laughs or shakes his head.
mean, I'm not a monster. But I've got used to it now. Me me me like me eh, not no. I am still a creature of God, so I'm looking the same. Mica God can create something that is ugly, that is, is not really possible.
But sometimes I wondered if by chance, but by chance eh, God does not like me. I figured if God sees me and laughs in his face him well, that is, as I would take it?
Maybe I give a damn about him as well, so I've got used to it now. I likes me for me anyway, heh.
However, that is strange. God created me and then not even like me? But stupid is mica? So like me by force, not fool God is also the priests
But look at me strange when I'm going to confess. In fact, even make them tell me the sins to me, and not even the Act of Contrition, I now perform immediately. To love, to me it makes me comfortable as well, I am ashamed to say those things to good people. And then it ends up that I do not want to confess anymore.
The priests in my opinion because I do so worthwhile. They think like "Poor man, and has the all the misfortunes, my goodness, I now absolve now, so an unlucky there may have too many sins on my conscience." In my opinion they do so, but I did not say why it ends up that then accuse them of making preferences and does not go well, because men are all the same eh, even if some of them in front of people turn up their nose. Even the priests, but they do it because you dislike, not because they suck.
But my mother was different. She smiled at me always, even when I did a shit on me because I did not have time to get to the toilet. Even when you fart during dinner or when guests were.
Even when I killed her, smiling.
Yes, I killed my mother. But I did it on purpose, I swear. The
wanted to make a joke, a silly joke, just for laugh. I had put a powder in spicy soup, as well, to laugh, eh, and she could not eat spicy things. The
He took a shot, as I smiled. A shock condom, or whatever you call that thing ugly, and fell with his face in the soup.
I thought you wanted to avenge the joke and I wanted to do one herself. He wanted to pretend that he was kin. And I laughed too and I to the joke. But
not get up, his head did not move anymore. And then I realized it was really dead. But who knew that if I ate the soup cracks? I just wanted to make her laugh a little '!
I was scared. I thought they sent me to jail, saying, "He killed his mother, poor woman, that wayward child," and things like that. So I should not let anyone know she was dead, her.
It was not hard because we lived so much alone. Dad I never knew, I heard that she left us she was pregnant with me. So the first thing that came to mind was the thing to hide it better I could do.
ate it, piece by piece. So I had lunch yet. It was good, he knew of meat like that of animals, her. And ate it all, he was so lean, not as I was.
instead threw the bones, not me I could eat them. And all I said was that game and that had left me alone, so I worked as a clerk.
But to me I was sorry that I killed her. And I could not even confess to the priests because I now immediately absolved.
Sometimes I think God does not like me. As I said, I know, but when mom comes to my mind I think about it forever. Maybe God has allowed me to eat well because I had something good on the body. Something with a nice smile over.
Who knows if I even ate his soul, or God if it is taken before me. To me I would have liked to stay with me.Così least I felt less alone, I do.
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