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" I could. I just don't like to write linearly." You can't," she grinned. "You're like an odd fiddler that can play some Paganini pieces but can't play scales. Now, don't be like that." She pulled me to her, but I was a bit reluctant. "Look," she said after seeing my reluctance. "I'll bet you a long, great blow job, playing with your come with my tongue and swallowing. Now, forget it and come here."I started writing a linear story when I arrived home that day, but it never went beyond page ten.We got to know each other far too well.But there's much more to that subject. After I gave up I told her so."My stories are linear," I argued. "Just not in time. They are a build-up, a sequence of sometimes apparently uncorrelated facts that slowly form a picture. They have to be presented in a certain order, not to be to random or too obvious." That's an excuse," she said. "It's like an abstract painter that can't draw. He's a liar, not an artist. If you take Picasso, he could draw very well.. I could feel her wetness as my fingers moved along the folds of her womanhood. She looked at me in wonder as she rocked her hips against my hand and opened her legs wider. I used my thumb to pull open the leg band of her panties and my index finger probed the opening of her pussy lips, feeling for her clitoris. When I found it she closed her eyes and allowed her forbidden pleasure to overcome her better judgment. Her smile and moaning kiss to my ear encouraged me on. My cock was raging in my pants as I inserted two more fingers into her love canal and felt her juices flow. I couldn't help smiling as I watched her cheeks and neck blush red with lustful desire. She purred softly into my ear as her breasts heaved and a film of perspiration appeared on her face and chest. Suddenly her eyes flew open and she clamped her legs together. I looked up to see her husband walking over to our table. He put his hand out to me and said, "Hi Dave, glad to see you made it to my little celebration.
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