Petra Feet Teases With Her Black Rht Nylons, Playfully Flaunting Her Soles And Toes Under The Table—so Close You Can Almost Taste Them—until You Can’t Take It Anymore

“Dear god she is shaven like a whore!” the doctor exclaimed. “What for?” he asked stupidly. For this reason as she became of age I arranged for her to marry one Humphrey Raymond, a dear friend of mine, recently widowed. “Am I dismissed?”
“Bloody hung more like,” I suggested, “But a service first.”
He seemed puzzled, “Keep your skirts lofted Lavinia, spread your legs and prepare for your maidenhead to be ripped asunder,” I ordered. “Actually, no, on the contrary,” I confided, “I am reasonably confident she has been plucked frequently by a servant, this is why she must wed, though if by any mischance she has not then we must reconsider the matter entirely. “My Lord!” Legge spluttered. The doctor eased her thighs apart and taking his monocle he inspected her womanhood, gently easing her woman’s lips apart as I looked on. “Oh Miss Lavinia, I must apologise,” Mellors said uselessly as he took his pleasure. “The good doctor is required to verify your virginity,” I explained. “Am I to take it you love Mellors?” I asked. “Not quite lad,” I assured him, “Now bring your wench and let us discuss matters like gentlemen do in a whore house.”
“Wench, how dare you call me wench!” Lavinia bridled. “I lust for his rippling muscles and stiff manhood, I cannot love a man so much