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girls seeking men in Segovia Texas TX December 3, / By Hevesi “No, no, you can’t go up!” Haas’s father insisted that day in when the family went to an air show in Bennington, Vt. But when her parents left, Ms. Haas, then 19, sneaked back to the airfield, paid a dollar and, as she liked to say, “squished into a seat” for a ride on a plane. It was the first of hundreds of flights that Haas Pfister would make — dozens as a member of the Women Airforce Service Pilots, or WASPs, during World II, and more as one of the nation’s most successful female competitive pilots. (And not counting those as a Pan Am stewardess in the days when women had a much harder time getting hired as pilots.) Ms. Haas Pfister, a two-time winner of the All Women’s International Air Race, died on Nov. 17 at her home in Aspen, Colo., her daughter said. She was 90. After that first flight, Pfister said, “Mom made a deal with her father that she would stay in school if he paid for flight lessons.” By the time she graduated from Bennington College in , Ms. Haas Pfister (she went on to Pfister in ) had logged enough flight time to be accepted as a member of the WASPs — an Army Air Forces attachment created to fill the void when male pilots were deployed overseas. As one of 1, WASPs, Ms. Haas Pfister ferried planes from factories to domestic airfields or to ports for shipment overseas. WASPs also towed targets for aerial gunnery practice. Thirty-eight died in accidents. But by December , with the winding down, the women were deemed no longer needed and the unit was disbanded. Ms. Haas Pfister found work as an aircraft mechanic and, very occasionally, flying cargo planes. In , for Pan American, she became the first stewardess ever hired with more than 1, hours of flight time. “She got to travel all over the world,” her daughter said. “But she’d rather have been in the cockpit any day of the week.” woman for couple Haarlem
february 28th 2042 a look into the future The hand which undid my belt slipped under my shirt, and slid up my stomach, snaking under my bra to cup my breast. I was wearing a pushup, but his firm hands supported the free breast, and he rolled my nipple in between his knuckles. He asked me if I liked it. I bit my bottom lip while watching his hand caress me through the shirt. "Mhmm, I I do. I like how rough you are with me," I breathed and squirmed. I felt him get harder beneath me. His other hand spread my legs apart farther, my right foot resting on the right edge of the doorframe, my left foot bent and in the footwell. He pinched my nipple harder and I rolled my head back and moaned. His free hand lifted slightly and started tapping his fingers against my clit. My propped up leg started shaking as I moaned through a bit bottom lip. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some movement through the rear window of the SUV, and heard the measured thuds of rolling luggage along the cracks in the sidewalk. I tried to stop moaning as I watched the suited pace approach the SUV, but Sir had to stop tapping my clit, and turned my head in for a kiss. I caught my breath and watched the roll right past my window, not more than feet away from my open legs, my dripping silky pussy uncovered, my master's cock peeking between my asscheeks, his fingers tugging my nipple. His fingers smelled like saltwater, and they were slick and warm. He partly pulled away from a kiss. "What would have happened, if he walked just a little bit closer? Or if you weren't still when I pulled on your nipple? All he had to do was turn his head to me playing with you, right at eye level and completely open for display. Then what?" "I suppose he'd report us." He placed one finger between our lips and I shamefully licked, tasting my slickness caught between the grooves in his finger tip. I nipped the end of his finger, and he tugged in warning at my now-aching nipple. "-, I don't think he'd report us. I think he'd how exquisite you look and ask to bury his face in your pussy. Or to pull you to the edge of the seat and fuck you while I watched." He pulled my underwear to the side exposing my bare pussy, and pressed the finger I just licked against my clit. I was so wet, and aching, and his hand shook against me, and it was all I could to stay quiet. nsa friends for a few days
He moves his hands down her waist and they disappear from my sight. I know where they are going, and I the grin on her face as they move to her bottom. I can him push his hips against her, and I know what is growing between them. The experience is exquisite. I look away, satiated. There is no need to look back. It is perfect, beautiful. There is no further need to explain or speak, or attempt futile foible fumblings. I don’t need him to me tonight. Our shared experiences are enough for me this evening. I stand behind her at the coat check counter and look up at the large piece hanging overhead. The piece is magnificent. One of his best. I gaze at it and lose myself for a moment. I must tell the artist this one is my favorite. It always remind me of tonight. Her, him, …him and her. She hands me her coat and I assist her with it as the crowd surges, and she is once again pressed against my hard cock. Her response is slightly more animal this time and her movement is more of a grind. Hidden by the crowd I allow myself the pleasure. I close my eyes and move my hand to her hips. Mmmmmm, I purr into her ear. The crowd swirls around us and there is movement. Touch. Graze. Across the seat of my trousers. I do not turn around. There is no need. I know whose fingers they were. I gasp and chuckle at the same time, and push against her hips as the fingers move contentedly move away into the crowd. And as my eyes remain closed I image his grin as he walks away, his smile as he kisses her. They are mixed with visions of my wife’s eyes as we climax, the taste of her skin, her breasts, her pussy. I hear her speak. “Beauty gets you hot, eh?” “Yes,” I respond. Beauty gets me hot. Stockport adult forum
at how people actually pay a professional to let them make it All About Her. The escort gets paid to create an illusion ringing a professional's is a common fantasy and a massive ego boost, I think. Hell, when I was much younger I used to believe I could do it too but on reflection out of maybe a couple hundred assignations I can count maybe times where I was certain the escort had a happy ending and in more than half of those there were toys involved and she was in the driver's seat. So I think we're down to wiz getting an escort off all by himself maybe twice in 30 years ;-) My favorite story on that topic is one I got from a friend who managed to give herself a shot of Astroglide right in the middle of the act without the knowing I have no idea how she did it other than the bottle must have been really close. At the end of the assignation the asked for a partial refund of his donation because she was so loud and so damp he figured he'd rung her hard and shouldn't have to pay full fare since she had such a good time. Sheesh. ;-) San Casciano in Val di Pesa married chatwho made a sensory experience out of all-natural elements. My clothing was picked out for me. Hiking gear rigid canvas material shorts, light jersey cotton tank, tall socks and well-lived boots. Underwear was already present on my person which is why I left it out of the articles put out for me. After I had changed I was blindfolded and a pair of soft satiny gloves were slipped over my hands. To be denied my sense of sight was a nominal aggravation but to be denied touch in what I anticipated would be such a tactile excursion was frustrating enough to make me sit, arms crossed and sullen, in the passenger's seat all the way there. Once at the trailhead he took my hand and swung me around in the seat to where my feet out the open door. My boots and socks were as my brows knit in a perplexed fashion above the blindfold. I was guided, padding through soft duff and underbrush, for what felt like an eternity. I had no concept of space or time. All I could focus on was the textures and surfaces under my feet. Sometimes at footfall would land on a stick which would subsequently snap up and jab me in the most tender spot of an arch and I would hiss out curse. In a futile gesture I kept raising my free gloved hand to feel along surfaces but finding that to be not so helpful with the barrier of fabric between my hand and each surface; mainly the bark of trees. It is amazing how sensitive one area becomes and dulled another when you cover or remove coverings. How times have you trod with bare feet and gloved hands for any length of time? I was walking and stumbling like a drunk. Eventually the terrain under my feet changed to cooler but rough stones and rocks. At one point I felt flesh tear and give in a small scrape as I half-skittered half-blundered over stones. After a minute I heard rushing water, a void of stillness and more rushing water. At the same time I felt cool soft moss carpeting my treacherous steps. i like sex
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