the woman that brought us all to manhood
you're 15 and you get up in the mornings, somewhere around 5.15 - 5.30, reach down the comforter, into your pants, just to wiggle a little comfort onto your erected willy, he's gotten all tensed up, cause either A; you need to take a piss, or B; Mrs. Bhavani Raj...
you forget about all that, in a split second, cause you realize you haven't finished you add maths homework. you get all dressed up, eat a crummy breakfast, get on a farking bus and off you go to the devilish hell, known to all boys as 'school' and the first words you would have said was, 'did you watch X-Files last night?' and ofcourse, next you tend to business, 'hey, you finished your add maths?'.
rushing the pen on the paper, fliping your book and the one you're making a xerox off, rushing all those x's, y's, dy's and dx's and all those numbers and decimals, then you have to underline the answer, the date and ofcourse deliberately make a mistake so 'the destroyer' wont sniff out a cheat. you're rushing and you're rushing, all to beat those three damn bells. you'd think we'd have the brains to you know, smuggle the work into other lesson periods, but no! we want to finish all this before the bell, before the show, the show that put the sunrise to shame. every morning, the same show, but we never got tired of that. oh no, not us, we (and our willy's) love that show.
all you gotta do is stand there, and watch her, walk up from behind the crowd and you'd go, 'thank you god, she's wearing that tight brown blouse'. she walks ever closer, and then the main event begins. her walk down the steps. each bounce of her breasts were measured, milimetre by milimetre by our prying eyes. offensive inquisitiveness of ourselves reaping at the two soft fleshy milk-secreting glandular organs on her chest, just inching on her body. every single one of us, wanted a piece of that. there wasn't a head that didn't follow those tits.
you'd think that would be the end of the show, oh no. what comes down must go up. the walk back up the stairs. the shakes of her booty from side to side, grinding her betweens together, she'd squeeze and perk out her tushi as she cat walked back up. and our eyes didn't flinch for a second. our daily dose of Mrs. Bhavani Raj's pleasures. the blisters on my fingers was worth it all, the show never seems to disappoint, every morning. sometimes i wonder if she did all that on purpose, if she wanted us to get all high on her. maybe, just maybe she got the same kicks out us watching her as we did. i'd wonder sometimes how wet she could have been, and man, i won't lie or hold back the fact that i wanted to bath her every inch of her body with my tongue, every fucking day of my school life. being 15, coming into a world where sex just wasn't anymore something you couldn't imagine yourself doing. it was starting to make you realize your deepest fantasies and fetishes.
but then one day she just upped and left, leaving us all with just the memory...darn those fucking good days. everything these days has to have emotions involved in it. life at 15 was mother fucking good, and we tasted it, straight from her tits.
oh don't read this and go, as if you have no idea what i'm talking about. if it wasn't her, there was a Mrs. Bhavani Raj in everybody's eyes, at every school. i guaran'damn'tee it.
you forget about all that, in a split second, cause you realize you haven't finished you add maths homework. you get all dressed up, eat a crummy breakfast, get on a farking bus and off you go to the devilish hell, known to all boys as 'school' and the first words you would have said was, 'did you watch X-Files last night?' and ofcourse, next you tend to business, 'hey, you finished your add maths?'.
rushing the pen on the paper, fliping your book and the one you're making a xerox off, rushing all those x's, y's, dy's and dx's and all those numbers and decimals, then you have to underline the answer, the date and ofcourse deliberately make a mistake so 'the destroyer' wont sniff out a cheat. you're rushing and you're rushing, all to beat those three damn bells. you'd think we'd have the brains to you know, smuggle the work into other lesson periods, but no! we want to finish all this before the bell, before the show, the show that put the sunrise to shame. every morning, the same show, but we never got tired of that. oh no, not us, we (and our willy's) love that show.
all you gotta do is stand there, and watch her, walk up from behind the crowd and you'd go, 'thank you god, she's wearing that tight brown blouse'. she walks ever closer, and then the main event begins. her walk down the steps. each bounce of her breasts were measured, milimetre by milimetre by our prying eyes. offensive inquisitiveness of ourselves reaping at the two soft fleshy milk-secreting glandular organs on her chest, just inching on her body. every single one of us, wanted a piece of that. there wasn't a head that didn't follow those tits.
you'd think that would be the end of the show, oh no. what comes down must go up. the walk back up the stairs. the shakes of her booty from side to side, grinding her betweens together, she'd squeeze and perk out her tushi as she cat walked back up. and our eyes didn't flinch for a second. our daily dose of Mrs. Bhavani Raj's pleasures. the blisters on my fingers was worth it all, the show never seems to disappoint, every morning. sometimes i wonder if she did all that on purpose, if she wanted us to get all high on her. maybe, just maybe she got the same kicks out us watching her as we did. i'd wonder sometimes how wet she could have been, and man, i won't lie or hold back the fact that i wanted to bath her every inch of her body with my tongue, every fucking day of my school life. being 15, coming into a world where sex just wasn't anymore something you couldn't imagine yourself doing. it was starting to make you realize your deepest fantasies and fetishes.
but then one day she just upped and left, leaving us all with just the memory...darn those fucking good days. everything these days has to have emotions involved in it. life at 15 was mother fucking good, and we tasted it, straight from her tits.
oh don't read this and go, as if you have no idea what i'm talking about. if it wasn't her, there was a Mrs. Bhavani Raj in everybody's eyes, at every school. i guaran'damn'tee it.
posted by Unknown at 01:24
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home