“Good is such a poor adjective.”
He grinned and gently kissed me. “In this case, yes, I do believe you’re correct.”
“Plus, it’s Saturday.”
He nodded, his hand reaching out, grasping onto my morning woody, which, unlike me, was an early riser. “Fantabulous morning,” he then reiterated.
“Ah, now that word paints a picture.” Albeit mostly in pink and lavender hues, but still.
“And can you paint with this then?”
I nodded and repaid his kiss in kind. “Mostly in gobs of white, but sure.”
Should we again jump ahead or do you want the nasty, sheet-writhing details, filthy, filthy you that you are?
Yes, I already know the answer to that, but, still, let’s jump ahead a bit. I mean, if all I did was recount my s****l adventures, I’d quickly run out of words for d**k. Though meat-stick has yet
