“Your whore likes you fucking me” I replied. “Am I better than you husband?’ the next question came. I knew Jon would hear me, but I didn’t...care, “You fuck your whore so much better than he fucks me” I added. “Tell me” he demanded louder as another hand flew across my face one more time. “Your cock fucks your whore better than his cock” I cried out, “Fuck your whore” I added, “Fuck me”. “Fuck me hard” I went on, now so thoroughly turned on I didn’t care if Jon cared that I liked his black. I held both her hands and keep on licking. I sensed that she is already ready to get fucked but I don’t want to leave the chance to explore her body.I turned her and now she was facing me. I opened her legs wide. I could almost smell her little pussy. I pushed myself between her thighs. She was all smooth down there as if she was expecting this to happen tonight. I started licking her inner thighs and started teasing her by blowing air on her wet pussy.She held bedsheets tightly with both her. She actually started chatting and playfully chiding me when I didn’t chat back with her: “It doesn’t damage your masculinity to talk, Lightfoot!” She lost none of her pig-headedness, though. We did what she wanted, when she wanted, and I was expected to accommodate her.We slipped into an easy routine.On Sunday, I was treated to a dance recital.Pink Floyd music flowed rhythmically and seductively over the audience. On stage, student dancers from early teens to early twenties performed Roland. My breath was coming in short, quick pants, I could feel something building inside, like a balloon filled to almost bursting. But the explosion escaped me, and part of me wasn't even sure I wanted it, a little frightened of what it might mean.I wasn't sure what would happen to me if that balloon were to burst inside me. Then, unbidden, the image of my parents in front of the fireplace leaped into my mind. Again, I could see her, kneeling naked in front of him, her hand stroking his penis, her.
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