>>24803501
She took me to her room.
As I stood there, waiting, watching in stunned silence, she lifted the dress.
Her pale, freckled skin emerged, like stars.
Between her legs, the softest bush of ginger hair, where her thighs connected in delicate feminity.
Her breasts hung, aristocratic in their health and firmness. I salivated, seeing her nipples, the areolas swollen, her tips delicately indented. Ms. Rowling was a timeless woman. Beyond age. Intensely sexual.
When my fingers touched between her legs, I felt her lips divide and--the dew, felt her hissing breath in my ear, felt her hands running up and down me, her breath tremoring as she anticipated a young man who could throw her into ecstasy and bestial passion, helping her to forget her husband.
Joanne was a lover of feverish intensity. Each time she rose to orgasm, I felt her whole body convulse, felt her sex pulse tight around me, felt the wetness renew, heard her cry out in my ear. She was a woman who had everything, and more so, as I pleasured her and was pleasured in turn. Joanne was a selfish lover. Catty. Savage in her hunger for seed; a mewling, pretty, helpless girl, whimpering in ecstatic agony at the reception of it.
There was nothing like the look of her eyes, glassy, her tongue extended, her eyes wet with tears and her lips, dripping with the silver of my memory.
Ms. Rowling.
I will never forget the evenings we spent together. If only you had told me the truth, about your husband, perhaps things would have gone differently, and perhaps we could have made a life together. Alas, not all heaven is forever, and not all magic is truth, but this I know: that to love a woman like you, and to be loved, and to know the pleasure between your delicate thighs, was the crowning achievement and bliss of my life, and I will always dream of it.
