”“Maizie? This is supposed to be a fun day for the two of us. You really want to go to the office?” I said. Her little front legs were beating t...e air while she danced on her hinds. “You know what that means? I need to change clothes.” One thing Dag had always insisted on was professional wear in the office. I know. It’s my office now. I can dress however I want. I went upstairs and changed from ripped jeans into a pair of wool slacks and a sweater. Casual Saturday. Or as Dag would say,. Why had she provided me with such a convenient excuse? I lost this train of thought as I softly thrust and slowly ground my cock into my mother's ass through the material of the sleeping bags. I kept grinding and holding my cock against her until I came, spurting all over the inside liner of my bag. Only after the final spurt did I come to my senses. She hadn't moved or responded in any way, thank God, but she hadn't been breathing like she was sleeping either. She was just very, very still. I. “Nice and shiny, like a special candy wrapper” I said. That brought a smile and glance over the shoulder, while I still was feeling those buns. We headed upstairs to the office and to those reports.The reports did not take long. Since we finished early, she decided to clear out and organize some of the old files. I had them stacked at the back of my counter. As she reached way over the counter to get those files, I turned around and started caressing her ass. She wiggled back into me, and. Electric bells and speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories, while on the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg’s bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. ‘That’s good, that’ll do,’ said Passepartout to himself. He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house. It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the morning, exactly.
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