I was well into 1846 when a voice asked “How was the fishing?” It was my acquaintance from yesterday.“Just fine. I caught a small snapper, which...we released and a nice-sized yellowtail, which I gave to the boat’s captain.”“Nice sized?”“Fourteen kilo.”“And you gave it away?”“It would stink up the room.” She laughed prettily.“May I join you again?”“Of course, but there’s a price.”“Oh?”“I need to know your name.”“That’s easy. Charlotte Smith, like the author. And your’s?”“Gordy Hollister. But you. My left arm was snaked beneath her neck so I could spoon myself tightly against her in our sleep, my right arm draped over with the palm cupping a very firm breast. My morning wood was neatly folded in the cleft of her asscheeks. And she smelled absolutely wonderful.I gazed down at the dark hair of my girlfriend, watching the rhythm of her body rising and falling in her sleep. The comfortable familiarity soothed me like a nice bubble bath, and I leaned down to nuzzle at her neck and shoulders.. More

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