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Sunday, September 9
Sunday, September 9 It was an absolutely gorgeous day, sunny and 75. Peter was out cutting the grass. The house was clean, the laundry was done. I wore a light see through blouse and shorts. Bailey had on a tank top, shorts. Liz wore a thin,<b> silky </font></b>camisole, shorts. None of us wore a bra. That was one of Peter's rules, and there weren't many. No bras at home. He understood the social norms: bras needed to be worn in public, and lately, women, especially young women, were abandoning their undergarments. It was hot and sexy. Peter felt that bras could be sexy, but they generally inhibited a constant state of arousal. We agreed. We were aroused. Our nipples revealed our arousal. And that's how Liz found herself leaning over the back of the couch, her shorts on the floor, and Bailey's tongue between her labia. And my face buried between Bailey's legs. |
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Monday morning's comment.
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