I let my hands trail down his back to his waistband. I hooked my thumbs into his shorts and pushed them down. His cock sprung from his shorts and knocked against my balls.I maneuvered him so that he was between me and the washing machine. It had just started the final spin cycle.“Hop up there,” I instructed.He placed both hands on the washer and lifted himself onto the lid.I bent and sucked his hard cock into my mouth. I could smell the butter from the kitchen in his pubes. My tongue pushed against the vein on the underside of his cock as I worked the head into my throat.His foreskin retracted, and the bare head slipped down my throat. His hands moved to the back of my head and held me there.When he released me, I came up for air, and, then, I dove back onto his cock. Again, his hands came to the back of my head. This time, he held me until I gagged.I came up gasping for air, but immediately went down on his cock. Again, taking it into my throat.His hands returned to my head,. I was back on the other side of the island where I lived in a small cottage over-looking the beach. I had my easel set up on a slight rise that gave me a perfect view of the sea and the beach and the rich green vegetation that covered the island from the edge of the beach to its central rocky outcrop which rose to about 20 metres above sea-level behind me. I was trying to paint, but it was no use. The large rocks that gave the beach its character, round and smooth from thousands of years of tidal erosion, became soft round buttocks. The clouds that hung in a deep blue sky became milky white breasts. And the bushes became…well, bushes. Could an alcoholic concentrate on his work if he knew that there was an ice cold beer in the lunch-room refridgerator? I rest my case. There was nothing for it but to pay Vanessa a visit. Maybe if I saw enough of her I would get bored and be able to return to my work. Desensitization therapy I think they call it. Now if you really think I believed this.
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