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Hope was an impossibility, yet I felt it just the same. ******** The seagull’s flapping wings woke me as it settled on top of the spike I was tied to. I noticed it was one of the larger ones. She was a beauty, her feathers a mix of white and soft gray. I imagined that I could feel her little heart beating as she swallowed the fish she had caught a few moments earlier. The seagull looked down at me afterward. I smiled. What else could I do? I guess I should have been worried since I was unable to defend myself if she decided to attack, but I wasn’t. Could she really do worse than Hera had already done? Besides, she wasn’t going to attack. I was just a curiosity to her. This proved to be true a few moments later when she flew off in search of more food. I watched her go and smiled. Her wings were larger than I expected when I first saw her. They flapped for a few seconds and then bent to catch the air current as her feathers fluttered in the breeze. I dwelled briefly on the miracle of. I began to squirm as the pressure increased. "Stand still!" She snapped. I opened my mouth to protest my need but was told to shut up. I stood as still as I could, tensing every muscle I could to hold on as she continued at a snails pace.With my shirt finally off she knelt in front of me and began on my trousers. The proximity of her face to my crotch had my cock standing to full attention and helped to hold back my other need. I still had to bite my lip to distract myself somewhat. Trousers and pants around my ankles she ordered me to step out of them. I did.Still knelt in front of me and ran her tongue over the end of my cock then began to nibble it. The resulting sensation after so long without sex was too much and embarrassingly, I shot my load into her mouth.She stood up and glared at me. "Did I tell you you could cum? I don't think so you filthy bastard." She glared at me, as a small trickle of cum escaped her lips. She swallowed the rest. "What do you do for an encore, piss on.
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In his mind it was a simple question of supply and demand. Unfortunately, into his little studio by the undulating sea there was scant supply, and a dearth of demand except the merchant’s demands of bills to pay. On top of all that, Jean’s cheap studio was at the water’s edge and habitually damp…he coveted dryness for his canvas, for his clays to set and his physical soreness that troubled his artist’s mind when he worked. He once lamented, to himself, that such issues never betroubled Michaelangelo. No!! and yet consoling himself with scarves, jackets and socks he kept warm enough only lacking in one important ingredient…a patron. As it happened one cold morning in the spring of that year…His heart leapt on that early morning for there entered his studio a young woman of obvious means as indicated by her elegant ensemble. “Excuse me monsieur, “ she said. “Are you the artiste called Jean?” Jean stood, smiled, bowing. She looked at him and around his small studio and.

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