And miraculously a week later the doctor said you had five more years. I thanked God… It’s been four years since then, and you know I know it’s time to start begging again. But Ian, I don’t think it will help. The coffee is getting cold like it always does when I’m typing away at my computer. You never seem to mind though, wrapped up in your own thoughts as you ask, ‘Want another cup?’ How different we are and how quiet the same. Your detachment almost complimentary to mine, even after all these years. Should we call it love? Why not? Yes, you always have a funny way of putting things, too. You’re funny. You always have a way of putting a smile on my face, knowing exactly how to pull my leg, massage my ego or perhaps break my heart. For a long time I didn’t know what it felt like to be without you. But now Ian. We are alone. And soon it will all stop. No more greeting cards. No more me nor you. So stop thanking some poor man who got nailed to death some thousands of years ago! You. Gibson grabbed it with her other hand. She stroked both of our dicks, slowly at first, but then quickly, alternating the strokes like she was milking two cow's udders. Mrs. Gibson was breathing very heavy and audibly, her eyes half-closed, her mouth open slightly, but still with a smile. Jim had worked three fingers into her wet pussy, and they made noises as they went in and out rapidly. Her legs were spread wide, and I was standing between her legs with my dick head less then a foot from her pussy and Jim's hand. "Oh, Jason," she moaned to me. "Put it in." I released her tit and moved forward. Mrs. Gibson sat with her butt on the edge of the desk. Jim moved his hand back up to her tit, leaving nothing between my cock and her pussy. Mrs. Gibson grabbed my cock firmly and pulled it to her twat. I moved up and my dick made contact with her pubic hair. She spread her legs wide, thrust her hips out, and guided my dick to her slit. The head slipped in, I thrust forward, and I slid.
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