"No, please... leave it there. It suits you," Jill encouraged.She worked quickly as she sat on the stool, a large clipboard propped on her thighs. She carefully selected colors from her extensive assortment of oil pastels. She liked working in this medium actually; Craypas had the depth and durability of crayons with the translucence of pastels, and without the mess that ordinary chalk pastels created. She studied the man's face for several seconds. To her credit, Jill did have an unerring eye and the ability to faithfully reproduce the essence of things, and since studying at the institute, she had evolved from a rather sophomoric photographic rendering technique to a looser, more sophisticated one. Her quick sketches had a Matisse-like quality, and she was able to capture, at times, some facet of personality in an uncanny way. This ability set her apart from so many of the other portraitists who lined the sidewalks. Their work seemed to reproduce people who were stilted effigies of. I lifted my gaze and he nodded downward. I saw what looked like a bulge in his pants as well. “Unzip your pants” he whispered low. I immediately complied and my newly freed member popped out and stood straight up. As I heard dad taking down his pants, I again looked over to our wet-eyed friend and by then he was stroking what from a distance looked like a nice piece of meat. I needed no prompting after seeing that. Dad displayed that wonderful uncut cock of his and I proceeded to grab on and started pumping. “Take it slow, son” he pleaded. By then I was in the throes of lust for dad’s cock. I had grown to crave it and fantasize about it even when we were apart. Once I felt his pre-cum emerge from the opening I leaned over and buried my head in his lap and drew in that penis. I made love to him with my lips, my hands, and my throat. Dad immediately leaned back, pushed his trunk forward and began breathing in the familiar way I had come to recognize. He was getting close to gushing. .
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