Ten
Whistle woke up from a dream where he was inhaling the scent of honey. He was in his grandfather’s dacha outside Moscow, wiggling his fingers to reach the honeycomb nestled in the bottom of the jar of honey. Shifting closer toward the delicious scent, his dream morphed from that innocent boyhood memory to the dirtiest fantasy of plunging his c**k into a tight, wet hole while smearing his face in a pool of honey that smelled like Tasa.
His c**k brushed against something, and pain slashed through his sleep, almost making him yelp. Disorientated, it took him a moment to wake up and realize that he was sporting the hardest morning wood of his life. Glancing down, he was appeased to find Tasa, dead to the world, one leg and an arm flung over him possessively, like an octopus.
Rotating hi
