Reaching in and wrapping her delicate fingers around his pole, she lifted slightly and targeted his entry into her blazing chimney. She slowly slid down Santa's baton, coming to rest on his thighs. Though it was evident she settled on the hearth, Santa lifted slightly and put the last touches on the final landing with an audible sigh. Santa lowered his hands to Rachyl's firm ass, gripping it firmly as he gaily lifted her up. With nary a care nor a worry, Rachyl and Santa's actions presented us with a view the crowd found hypnotizing, while I just watched in pure amazement. Not a soul was stirring, not even the house staff. We became a captive audience as the two frolicked on Santa's throne. Using Santa's manual assistance, Rachyl placed her hands on his broad shoulders and jockeyed his pole, flying through the stages of exhilaration with enthusiasm. Gasping and groaning, faster and faster, the dance of lust became a blur of emotion and glee. Rachyl's molten core was flowing, covering. She shook my hand and I could feel her gentle strength. I liked that.Perhaps most striking were her breasts. It was not their size: I thought them perhaps a B cup. (Later Diane said, "Between a B and a C.") What *was* it that attracted my attention? Perhaps their firmness, their youthfulness? Yes, some of that to be sure. They were hands-down, flat-out beautiful.Were they augmented? I knew a little of that procedure and my practiced eye caught no tell-tale signs of subtle reconstruction incisions. Plastic surgeons are good, but the most artful surgeon can do no better than leaving a thin white line. No, there was no hint of surgical augmentation. The firmness and perky nipples were all her's (and God's) and I concluded this all in the first thirty seconds of our meeting.I'm a product of my conditioning and my mother's words were etched into my forebrain. "William, when you are talking to a woman, do not look down her dress. Wait until she's talking to someone else." I suspect the.
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