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Simone quickly cupped both of her hands under her chin, letting all the cum she’d already accumulated flow down onto the makeshift vessel, as the guy came with large, heavy, rapid shots into her mouth. This caused her on-going climaxes to reach an even higher peak and she began almost to laugh at how excited she’d become and, apparently, from how good she felt. Taking his hand off her boob and holding his good-sized dick with both hands, the semen-play display caused the last man standing to shoot his load. There was a joke there somewhere, but my alcohol- and pot-addled brain wasn’t quite seeing it. However, this thought had me start to think about why Donald hadn’t made some kind of a joke referring to the title of the 1960 Truffaut classic film Shoot the Piano Player (or Tirez sur le pianiste in French). It seemed a sure thing: here are six or seven guys all close together about to shoot their loads into the mouth of one young woman – and he’s a piano player! I suddenly became. They were already damp as my fingers slipped inside against my pussy, and I started rubbing my clit.“Yesss that’s it you hot young bitch.” He hissed into my ear.Then at the same time I heard a woman’s voice from outside, “Tony what do you think of this? It feels a little tight but, Tony? Damn where did he wander off to now.”The man grabbed my tits harder and smiled at me in the mirror as he heard his wife’s voice. He pinched and rolled my nipples through the soft material making my knees weak and causing me to gasp. Oh god I was so wet and turned on as my fingers worked my clit. My fingers moved back and forth against my clit occasionally slipping down between my pussy lips as I fingered myself. The man behind me continued his assault on my tits and it was all too much. I looked at the man behind me through the mirror and our eyes locked. His eyes were filled with hunger and lust and it pushed me over the edge. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out but a low long.
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The three days between that fateful moment and my finally having her, seemed like an eternity even to me. How could she have become so beautiful in just nineteen years? I hovered at the window, staring. She was kneeling beside her bed, saying her prayers. The long tresses of her golden hair fell innocently (or was it wantonly?) about her bare shoulders. The moonlight from the yard, brighter than the candlelight inside, poured through the window, rendering her nightclothes veritably transparent. Her lithe form, haloed by the diaphanous gown, pressing against its flimsy satin, begged to be set free. It was in that gown that she appeared to me in the cellar. Merely by concentrating on her image, by envisioning her leaving her bed, walking down the main staircase into the drawing room, passing through it to the back of the kitchen, opening the door to the wine cellar, and walking down its rotting staircase –merely by envisioning it!– I was able to make her do it. What else would I be.

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