The single glass of red wine, a red zinfandel, sat on the table before her. Occasionally she would raise it to her lips and savour the deep richness o... its flavour. Like the wine Lyndsay had allowed herself to develop into who she was rather than become available too early, had matured from through a rose to a full red as it were.There was a sound behind her and she felt someone moving closer. But it was now noon and the pub tables were starting to fill for the lunchtime rush. A bottle of Red. Her bust was modest but her nipples were enormous, standing out against her scarlet blouse. She wore black leggings that highlighted her meaty thighs, and expensive heels that clearly hurt her feet. We made small talk about our jobs, pop culture, sports and BDSM over five pints before taking an uber back to her place. Our driver is a Morrocain man who wailed against this era of sin and fornication the entire drive; we did egg him on though.Once at her modest three bedroom house, she assures me. More

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