”“Very well,” said Jeanette. “I’ll be the waiter. You’re doing more than your share.”“Well, dear, I know where things are. It’s not ...s if I had somewhere else to go.” Bob sat next to Cat and her telephone book -- they’d brought it from Chicago a couple of years ago; the local phone book was too scrawny to help. He poured syrup on her waffle, spread it around with her fork, and then used her fork and his knife to cut it into bite-sized pieces. The sausages on Cat’s plate had already been cut. I try to spit it out, but the tightly packed mass immobilizes my tongue. My pussy expels a syrupy surge onto the bench."Shhh." She leans in close enough for her whisper to stroke me, feather-light. I bite into the wad, tasting kelp and Coppertone, as soon as I feel the slippery tickle resume - and imagine in glistening detail what this scene would do to the cocks behind the hidden cameras. Poor, deprived garden club widower Mr. Danforth; he would've shot his load the second I wedged my fingers. More

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