Margarita proved to have a razor-sharp mind and quickly began to pick up the language. After a few days of the basics, we adopted a system of informal...story-telling, wherein I would relate a lengthy "story" in English -- often a more-or-less true, if not-necessarily-exciting, incident from my past. Then Margarita was obliged to repeat the story back to me, in whatever mixture of English and Spanish she could manage. The Spanish sometimes proved necessary in order to communicate the fact that. He’d even sneakily fingered some into her. She loved that he’d done that it made her feel so naughty. On her way to the toilet she felt a hand on her arse which quickly slid up her skirt and run its fingers over her pussy. She stopped and let them slide a finger in before turning around to find a group of chavs about 20 years old laughing as one of them sniffed his fingers. She reached out and pulled his hand to her and slowly licked and sucked his fingers. She then grabbed his wrist and pulled. Padding barefoot from his room he began to make his way through the too quiet house, running his fingertips through his long blonde hair, pushing it back into some semblance of order, his bright blue eyes blinking slowly, wearily. He stepped through the living room, between the deep couch his mom and Cassandra often occupied and the smaller one-seater that was often his own, then past the TV they often watched together towards the kitchen. He paused at the threshold, instantly feeling more. More than anywhere else he wanted to be inside a warm tunnel that would grip and squeeze him but was moist enough to facilitate easy access. But this wasn't going to happen quite yet, although he encountered more often a growing variety of hands.The portal he first entered was hirsute above and around two sets of doorways, a minor and a major one, rather like the entrance into a Swedish apartment. The grip was tight. Not well lubricated. And because of this there was some pain and discomfort to.
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