That old chestnut.But it was true, I, like Keats, just wanted to hear that song, thatfeminine moment of pureness and bliss. That all changes in arelat...onship, it ebbs away when you realise there's an actual personunderneath that beauty. One with hopes, shattered-dreams and fears. Theyare normal. You're back in the world of "weariness" and "fret'. So, likeKeats, I'm left unable to harness what the nightingale represents,because, shit, that's the whole point: you can't. It is free.In becoming a. So incredibly smooth and bare, begging to be licked, spread apart and made love to with a tongue. As quickly as she laid down, she got back up and went to the last bed. Knowing this was the last chance, I moved directly behind her to get a bird eye view of what I now knew was a panty less ass as she bent over the final bed. This time as she leaned in over the bed her legs were spread wider than before and her ass-cheeks parted to reveal the inviting shadows between them. The song of the siren. More

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