“And it's Friday before a holiday, so I'd hurry up and get upstairs if I were you.”“Thanks,” I said, as I quickly turned to leave. I noticed a...young girl, who couldn't have been more than eight or nine, sitting alone in a chair in the waiting area. She was crying. As much as I wanted to stop and find out what was wrong with her or why her parents weren't around, I needed to get upstairs before they closed.I saw that the elevator was about to close so I ran as quickly as I could. A young,. I checked everything. I pointed out the pinning of the wings behind the seat. There was a clip missing. Smiling, he handed it to me. I replaced it to make the system secure. Boy was he thorough. Satisfied, he checked the task off on the sheet he had. On the flight line was an Ag Cat with 200 foot of nylon line attached to the tail hook. It was stretched back to the sleek white two-place sailplane with the T-tail. The ground crew, i.e. Sally was at the high wing, ready to do the wing run for us. Doggy, licking her pussy, watching her play with herself, jerking off all over her tits, groping her breasts, sucking her nipples, being rewarded by a flood of milk, all were racing through his mind, with no particular sequence. It was like his mind was a gallery of porn thumbnails with her as the only porn star. The entire walk back to her car, she was aware (and so was he) that her nipples just would not go away. They were poking hard against the fabric of her dress. Every step, every jiggle,. . but never letting her know the extent of that loneliness. Then, after five years of joyful correspondence, the final email came. ‘Dear Cal . . .’ Her husband, now a college professor, had discovered her cache of emails and challenged her. He had not understood how she could have kept such a thing from him for so many years, and no amount of tears and confession would make up for the mistake of keeping their friendship secret. Finally, at the end of the long correspondence, she wrote the words.
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