By contrast, and much shorter, was Miss Gilda, as we called her. My wife was very tall, towering over me at about six feet, like some amazonian caught...as a prize in war. But Miss Gilda was short, and stocky. Her breasts were large, proportionate to her frame, and her hair was a tangled mess of orange-red that dangled down to her buttocks. Staring at it, as I perhaps too often did, reminded me of an old print I once saw, by a surrealist. It was supposed to be a copy of Vermeer’s Lacemaker, but. She moves closer to me again and starts opening my blouse. As she does this she starts kissing my neck. My body starts to tingle. My mind is fighting to figureout what is happening to me. But by this time she has got my blouse open enough to reveal my titties and she is sucking on my nipples. As she is working on my breasts my mind is swimming. I kick off my shoes. I can't help it anymore. I give in to her and hold her close as I start on her tits. She slowly lowers my skirt and panties. More

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