webcam video recorder I was very glad to see her, because I really liked her.
I want a guitar! – said Inna.
This meant that she wanted me to play to her, and I started.
I play not really, but she really likes.

Inna listened, closing her beautiful eyes.
While playing, I admired her.
I looked at her as a goddess, without worrying about what she noticed.
Apparently her music is very excited.
When I finished playing, I noticed that Inna was sleeping.
I walked over and, closing my eyes, whispered in her ear something that I could hardly have dared to say: I love you.
Suddenly, I felt her hot lips on my lips.
It seemed to me that time had stopped and this kiss lasted for ages.
Having come to our senses, we did not say a word on the bed, and began to kiss passionately.
Our tongues entwined in one bundle, which can not be unleashed by anyone.
Taking my hand, she put it on her big breast, and I felt her nipple harden.
Our lips were separated only for a couple of moments, in order to remove the outerwear, and then merged even more passionately.

I began to slowly cover her with kisses.
Her whole body trembled every time I touched her tender skin with my lips.
After enjoying the caresses, we passed each other to more specific actions.
She took mine, tense to the limit, member and sent it to.
the walls of her vagina tightly squeezed a member that penetrated deeper and deeper into it.
Dedicated to my favorite time – the 60th years of the twentieth century – and my favorite rock music. teen boy solo webcam
Necessary preface.
The whole story is fictional.
The only real songs quoted are the ones that were the source of inspiration for this story.
The use of these songs in the text is coordinated with all the performers :).
Regards – author.
San Francisco.
Avalon.
Summer 1968
In the stuffy concert hall, like marijuana smoke, the first beats of blissful, somewhat ragged “electrified” southern blues blurred.
Three guitars – bass, rhythm and solo – with a soft but precise support of the drums were sparingly meagerly, but they consistently deduced the same rhythm, creating a feeling of incredible density of sound enveloping listeners and musicians, uniting them into one whole.

What other San Francisco groups tried to achieve with light shows, free distribution of LSD and long guitar improvisations – unity, these newcomers who looked like Texas provincials, imperceptibly for everyone, achieved with the help of the usual three-chord blues that did not act on the brain, eyes and hearing , but on the soul and feelings.
The stocky short 23-year-old with a broad, ugly face in a plaid shirt, unbuttoned on the top two buttons, and wearing worn jeans, standing at the microphone, started singing.
His voice was low, sharp, shrill, with unaccustomed skin tugging with his Negro tonality.
In addition, the voice felt deadly tired and broken.
On the one hand, it was necessary according to the laws of the genre: the blues is performed only at the limit of power.
This blues is a pain.
On the other hand, fatigue also had physiological reasons: the guy did not sleep for the second night, suffering from insomnia and fleeing from her playing the guitar, writing new songs and polishing the old ones.

In addition, last night there was rain, in the old bungalow, which the group took off almost on the coast itself, the roof leaked, and the guy had a little cold, despite the mild California climate.
Now he has a sore throat.
But he sang; he had to sing.
Each line was separated from the other by a furious uncompromising guitar loss.
The guy always knew that his guitar was a living creature with his soul and aspirations, and today this creature supported him in his pain.
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