Sometimes she calls me bellota." Acorn?" I laughed. "Your grandmother calls you acorn?" When I've pleased her. When I've messed up she calls me arbust...," She waited for me to translate, and when I didn't, provided us with 'shrub.'"How come you know bellota but not arbusto?" she asked.I recited."An acorn swungOn an oak-tree bough;So long it had hung, It would fain fall nowTo the kindly earth, That its germ withinMight burst into birth, And its life begin." 'The Acorn' by Francis William. My eyes widen and my jaw drops at the sight of her. The words of amazement, ‘Fuck. Me.’ Almost escapes from my mouth as I stare at this phenomenal sight. She has slipped on a thin, silk, white robe, loosely tied at the front by the silk belt. The robe covering a couple of inches, if that, past her crotch. Clearly visible through the robe her huge 34F breasts hanging magnificently, her nipples pushing out what little fabric lays over them.My eyes make my way down her body. Through her robe you. More

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