Medaha Jangda Sandwiched

People will want to draw the wrong conclusions. Even then, you would still be welcomed. My Sunday school class’s name is ‘People without Partners.’ All are divorced or in the midst of one. There are a few genuine singles there because they don’t fit anywhere else in their minds.”“It sounds good, Todd. What time do we leave tomorrow morning?”“About nine thirty. We might catch lunch with some of the others in the class. It happens on a regular basis.”She nodded. She had finished eating and began cleaning plates off and loading the dishwasher. I helped, refilled my coffee, and led off to the radio room. Once in there, I flipped switches to turn everything on.I kept a two meter radio and had included it when turning things on. While the HF had static, the two meter was sounding with a local emergency net. I said, “Let’s listen. I think it’s in full emergency mode so it isn’t taking check-ins or providing for rag chewing.”We listened to hear that my assumption was correct. The net control. She was still, as if concentrating on her mammary sensations. I moved my hips forward and just nudged into the gatehouse. I stretched no gate, merely taking what space was there. I judged that the entry I was using would pass only my least digit, and that merely to the first knuckle. I spread my hands lower until I could press upward on the tips of the hanging nipples. She pulled herself upward, which moved her castle away, but I moved with her, neither displaced nor advancing.Then I did advance, pressing inward in the gatehouse, widening the entrance until it would admit most of my force, only the breadth of the van barring my passage. Here, I was feeling her warmth and grasp for the first time and restraint was becoming a task. A true knight, I held my post. I paused there and moved my left hand to her downthrust belly. There I delved in her navel with my last finger. She lifted away, the gatehouse retreated, and I moved in perfect pace with it. The most perfect pace, however, can.
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