When he first rode into here I was a very much sought after virgin. Many of the local men had already tried to buy me as a wife from my father; but he had the dignity to spare me that fate. I was walking quicky across a small park trying to get home in a hurry and he seperated himself from the group he was with and rode over for me and at the moment that he reached me he pulled up on his horse to the side. There was never a question. Was it what we call brujeria? And you call witchcraft? I will never know. But whatever produces the kind of chemistries where all is known at the beginning he had me, a beautiful young mexican virgin, up on his horse and no protest came to me. Holding onto him and feeling the bounces to the horse and the softness of his skin and hardness of his muscles. Smelling his sweat. Something just took me over and I was gone.
A pair of hours later, in a soft patch of grass behind a crumbling wall where he had spread his blanket, and a piece of black cloth to catch the blood that he knew would inevitably come from me I stared into the face long and hard of this dream who had swept me off my feet when I had opened the day without a thought of . He had treated me so gently, opening the buttons on my blouse one by one, and kissing the flesh that laid below, the rubbing of the tip of his tongue so delicate.
How he had worked down to the trusses of my dress and the years of making me want to stay a virgin coming back to me so strongly, but then melting away from me with such abandon , as he pulled me off naked and kissed my pussy deeper and deeper until I ached for him and he opened me up and just at the moment it would have hurt some he pinched me hard on the arm. My virginity was gone with the wind. It hadn’t been meant to stay with me. I held him tight.
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