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Shirley started to walk and pose about the office and as she did her top fell back down to cover her lovely tits back up. She kept bending over and I kept taking photograph of her in all positions. Then she came back towards me and swiped all her work to one side on her desk and sat on top of it. She raised one leg on to the desk next to hers and rested back down on to her elbows then raised her other leg on to her desk. Her pussy was fully exposed and she started to lick her lips. Hoping I had read her instructions correctly, I sunk to my knees in between her stretched out legs, dropped the phone and kissed the soft flesh spilling out from her stocking tops. She did not object and I kissed my way up her leg, I could not hold back to kiss her bulging lips sticking out from her bush. She was warm and moist and squirmed about on her desk, pushing herself on to my face. I buried my tongue as far into her swollen love lips as possible, flicking and vibrating it against her pussy walls. I wish my mother were still alive to see it. You can put my pictures from the same age beside his and — aside from the fact I'm dressed in the height of 1970's fashion — you can barely tell a difference.If I could get Mark to dress in a mustard yellow shirt, a hunter green V-neck sweater and a white flowered tie (an ensemble that I wore in at least two sets of pictures from my 5th year) the photos might come out identical.My son is guileless. He has no agenda. He loves me unequivocally. He never questions my motives and he hasn't learned the eye roll or the sarcastic voice that Kasey has perfected. He loves me not because I provide him with food and clothing and transportation but because I am his father.To him, that is enough. To me, that is the world.I cried the very first time he told me he loved me. Perhaps I was feeling unloved that day but I don't think so.We were in the park playing on the swings. His smile was golden and his laughter was sweeter than the sweetest melody. I.
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The gloves were stowed in her pockets, she couldn’t interact with the monitor through them, and constantly taking them on and off was becoming a chore. She took a few photographs of where she had found the plant, and then switched on her translation software.“What do your people call this plant, Sleethe?”“Purple flower,” he replied.“Ok ... helpful.”They moved on, Lena now knee deep in the muck. She struggled through the rough terrain as tangled nets of smaller roots from the weeds and shrubs made the going even tougher. She stopped here and there to take more samples of interesting plants, doing her best to catalog where she had found them, and what kind of conditions they were growing in. There was also moss and fungi clinging to every available surface, this muggy environment was a haven for them.Lena was no botanist, and so much of her specimen collecting was simple guesswork. If something looked unusual or different, then she’d pick it up and put it in a container. There were.

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