I am 36 years old guy a month ago I was out at a restaurant, I see two guys checking me out then they went up to me, we talk and then asks me if they wanted to go with them and then went to an apartment so we talk then one guy asked if I sucked cock before yes no yes then asked could you what I do not know then they took their cocks and start jerking their cocks and I start getting horny I took off my clothes and I start to suck their cocks then I was put on all fours I suck one dick and the other pushing his cock into my anal. It hurt in the beginning then it was nice they take turns fucking me long they took turns spurting
Abby went to the diner and waited for her friend Sharon, who was on a visit to London and when Sharon appeared Abby didn’t believe her eyes, Sharon had changed, before she wore dresses and heels now she had jeans, t-shirt and converse she asked if they could go to Abby’s and they did. When they came home Sharon went to Abby’s room and shouted at her until she came Sharon said off with the clothes and Abby protested but when Sharon took off the clothes so did Abby and then they necked and then came Abby’s dad and he just went up to Sharon and started fucking Abby and then she had a great and strong orgasm and then he fucked Sharon and she screamed, you must not, I will get my period tomorrow but he did not listen and then squirted his giant load and 4 months later Sharon was pregnant and then when the baby would be born, she received triplets and they were named Rickardo, Thor and Zlatano.
This is a fantasy and Abby and Sharon are 16 in the story.
In these halls no acts of worship are celebrated, they are exclusively devoted to gatherings of the people of the kind which we have come to know in the course of our long struggle; to such gatherings we have become accustomed and we wish to maintain them.
She fought the sensations, but it was a losing battle.
Sperm and semen, in a creamy white flood, filled the spongy tunnel of her vagina. She found the stalk of his sex and squeezed.
In one thrust, he skewered into her, burying himself within the moist harbor of her pussy. Here they attempt, by a constant appeal to the sentimentality — untroubled by any sort of knowledge — of the world-citizens of democracy to bewail the downfall of German culture: in other words, they lament the commercial closing-down of those elements which, as the heralds and exponents of the November Republic, forced their cultural characteristics, as unnatural as they were deplorable, upon the period between the two Empires; and which have now played out their role for good and all.
She was lying on her back on a warm, sticky mattress. Her pelvis undulated beneath him, washing the clingy folds of her pussy around him, bathing his bone-hard rod in the luxury of her body.
She was on her hands and knees now, her arms wrapped around a pair of legs and her mouth wrapped around a thick cock. He felt so damn good.
She lay in between two men, impaled upon their cocks.
His balls jumped. His hands covered her bulging tits and his mouth met hers. She was scraping it up with her fingers and stuffing it into her mouth when a second cock slid in. Her fingernails dug into the globes of his buttocks, trying to drag him deeper into the steamy, contracting channel of her cunt.
The room seemed awfully bright all of a sudden, but before her mind cold explore this thought, the cock in her mouth began to spurt jism. She fondled her own breasts with one hand while holding onto the second man’s cock as it slid in and out of her mouth. Another man was on top of her now, pumping in and out.
Such folk are not National Socialists, but something else — in any case, something which has nothing to do with us. A few moments later, she threw back her head and screamed as she was overtaken by an intense orgasm.
The mystic narrowness and gloom of the cathedrals began to recede and, to match the free life of the spirit, buildings became spacious and flooded with light. She worked her own pelvis, accommodating his wants and needs, giving herself completely to him.
He came a few seconds later, pumping sperm into her wet pussy. Already her body raced toward its release of lust and desire.
She tried to kiss him, wanting to feel his tongue on hers, but a second man slipped his cock into her panting mouth.
At the head of our program there stand no secret surmising but clear-cut perception and straightforward profession of belief.
Therefore we have no rooms for worship, but only halls for the people — no open spaces for worship, but spaces for assemblies and parades.
Taking her hand once again, he led her from the water. She felt the juices of arousal flowing within her, lubricating the fleshy piston that reamed her so marvelously.
As tight as possible, she squeezed down on his shafting length. While she had wriggled and tried to squirm away, he had pulled the pink top up over herbreasts, leaving it bunched up under her chin.
Greedily, she sucked at it as fast as she could, but some sperm spilt out over her face. One man, the one beneath her, had his cock up her pussy, and the one on top was thrusting in and out of her asshole.
Mystical twilight gave way before increasing brightness. Our worship is exclusively the cultivation of the natural, and for that reason, because natural, therefore God-willed. Her stretched cunt began to tingle, and a warm feeling spread out through her stomach and up into her breasts, causing her nipples to harden and become ultra-sensitive. Hotter and hotter the fires of need burned within the core of her body.
We will not allow mystically-minded occult folk with a passion for exploring the secrets of the world beyond to steal into our Movement. She had asked him to fuck her. The place he selected was a small grassy clearing hidden behind a low hedge-like growth of bushes – secluded and just right for two bodies.
With reckless abandon she threw her pelvis upward, deepening the angle of his penetration. The combined sensations sent her into a flurry of loud orgasms.
A third cock was stuffed into her panting mouth. It felt so long and hard – so ready to enter the aching slit of her sex. In and out he poled, plummeting and probing the hot socket of her cunt, and harder he pumped into her aching pussy.
He was like a rutting stag and she was the vessel of his lust. She had men who knew more about how to please a woman, but very few could match his vigor.
Then he slammed back, drilling to the hilt. She whimpered and thrashed beneath the weight of the youth atop her. His hands squeezed into the pliable domes of her breasts, as though using them for handles. His balls emptied themselves of their fiery load, jetting fountain after fountain into her trembling pussy, until his come oozed from her wanton slit and trickled down a thigh. Behind her, a man finished coming and pulled out.
As he continued to thrust in and out, she slipped her arms around his neck and crushed her face to his. She moaned and began to massage it with her aching tongue.
Without speaking, she lowered herself to the grass, laying on her back, thighs open to him. In no event can National Socialism or the National Socialist State give to German art other tasks than those which accord with our view of the world. This was not just some youthful sexual partner. Up and down her hips hunched, matching each of his ravaging strokes. Simultaneously, she reached down, wedging a hand between their cores.
National Socialism is not a cult-movement — a movement for worship; it is exclusively a “volkic” political doctrine based upon racial principles. He answered with a pleased smile and came to her, sliding atop the luxury of her supine body.
The more nearly the modern State approaches to the imperial idea of the ancient world-power, so more and more will the general character of that civilization be manifested in its influence upon the formation of the style of our own day. By contrast we shall be influenced in a thousand ways through the evidences and memories of that mighty imperial Power of antiquity which, although in fact destroyed fifteen hundred years ago, still as an ideal force lives on and works on in the imaginations of men.
Full weight, he rested atop the quivering bed of woman flesh, moaning his total pleasure.
The next thing she knew, he was inside her, impossibly big! She groaned as he pumped in and out, first with pain, but then with something else.
She had been wrong in thinking of him as a boy earlier – he was every inch a man. His groans rose to mingle with hers. Therefore we do not trouble in any way to make German art and culture suit the tastes of international Jewry.
A man lay on top of her, pumping frantically. But the gigantic works of the Third Reich are a token of its cultural renascence and shall one day belong to the inalienable cultural heritage of the Western world, just as the great cultural achievements of this world in the past belong to us today. There were times when a half-light was the necessary condition for the effectiveness of certain teachings: we live in an age when light is for us the fundamental condition of successful action.
Her fingers caressed the swollen firmness of his youthful length, reveling in its virile feel, its urgent throbs.
After that first orgasm, everything became a blur. On the other hand, at the present moment, the expression of a new view of the world which is determined by the conception of race will return to those ages which in the past have already possessed a similar freedom of the spirit, of the will, and of the mind. Deep and hard, he drove into her. It was the sexiest thing he had ever heard.
In its purpose there is no mystic cult, only the care and leadership of a people defined by a common blood-relationship. Raising her arms, she beckoned to him. His prick slithered from the molten deeps of her cunt. He had never imagined her using that word, let alone begging him to do it. Eventually, however, the pain went away, and a new kind of warmth spread through her.
Our humility is the unconditional submission before the divine laws of existence so far as they are known to us men: it is to these we pay our respect. At the same time, her eyes roved over him, homing in on the turgid pole of cock jutting from his groin. It will be a sorry day when through the stealing in of obscure mystic elements the Movement or the State itself issues obscure commissions.
The mysticism of Christianity, at the period of its greatest intensity, demanded for the buildings which it ordered an architectonic form which not only did not contradict the spirit of the age, but rather helped it to attain that mysterious gloom which made men the more ready to submit to renunciation of self. But since we set as the central point of this perception and of this profession of belief the maintenance and hence the security for the future of a being formed by God, we thus serve the maintenance of a divine work and fulfill a divine will — not in the secret twilight of a new house of worship, but openly before the face of the Lord. But for religious rites we are not the authorities, but the churches! If anyone should believe that these tasks of ours are not enough for him, that they do not correspond with his convictions, then it is for him to prove that God desires to use him to change things for the better.
Then he was still, soaking in the gratification of their carnal union. His mouth was wide open, and a thin line of drool spilt out and fell onto her face.
And so art today will in the same way announce and herald that common mental attitude, that common view of life, which governs the present age. It is even dangerous to issue any commission for a so-called place of worship, for with the building will arise the necessity for thinking out so-called religious recreations or religious rites, which have nothing to do with National Socialism. She groaned in disbelief. Momentarily surprised, he began to kiss back, and their tongues entwined frantically. What the fingers of these poor wretches have penned or are penning the world will — perhaps unfortunately — forget, as it has forgotten so much else. He filled her, packed her to the brim.
It will do this not because this age entrusts commissions to artists, but because the execution of these commissions can meet with understanding only if it reveals in itself the true essence of the spirit of this age. His cock makinga squelching sound in her wet pussy.
She came twice before the cock in her asshole started to spray sperm up her ass.
It does not make propaganda for an individual work, for the subject, or for the artist; it makes propaganda for the Greek world as such, which confronts us in Hellenism. Our commandment is the courageous fulfillment of the duties arising from those laws. She opened her mouth to receive it. Hot and tight, her cunt stretched around the swollen length of his cock.
We have no religious retreats, but arenas for sports and playing-fields, and the characteristic feature of our places of assembly is not the mystical gloom of a cathedral, but the brightness and light of a room or hall which combines beauty with fitness for its purpose.
And although the Jewish-democratic press magnates in their effrontery even today seek brazenly to turn these facts upside down, we know that the cultural achievements of Germany will in a few years have won from the world respect and appreciation far more unstinted even than that which they now accord to our work in the material field. If it wasn’t enough that this her latest lover was so young, there was the wicked taste of forbidden fruit in their union.
Gush after gush of hot, burning come spewed from the head of his cock.
The woman under him groaned with pleasure beneath the fleshy impact. Thus, naturally, the manifestation in art of a European conception of the State will not be possible through civilizations, as, for example, the civilizations of the Far East, which — because they are foreign to us — have no message for our day.
“Yes,” she whispered when his pelvis rose once again.
She felt man kneel down behind her, but instead of putting his cock into her pussy, he thrust it suddenly into her virgin asshole.
The only sphere in which the Jewish international newspapers still today think that they can attack the new Reich is the cultural sphere. Thrills of lustful want blasted through her wanton body. She came, her whole body shuddering with tremors of unleashed pleasure. She whined and wiggled her bottom, desperate for more cock. His cock, jerking with excitement, rammed into the welcoming gash of her shaven pussy.
Expertly, she guided him to the slightly-pouting lips of her labia, nestling his cockhead within those thick lips. Their bodies slapped together, just wet from the water and moistened by their own sweat. She accepted and welcomed each forceful lunge of his penetrating cock.
He stood above her for a moment obviously enjoying the unashamed nakedness of her body. She had moaned and cried as he began mauling her tits, but everything seemed so far away. He pulled up the zipper on her skirt and tore it off. The first of many that night. His hips inched upward.
“Yes, that’s it.”
They met in exploding ecstasy. The art of Greece is not merely a formal reproduction of the Greek mode of life, of the landscapes and inhabitants of Greece; no, it is a proclamation of the Greek body and of the essential Greek spirit.
She made the channel of her cunt a fleshy vise, igniting a pleasurable friction over each inch of his prick. Moreover, it is naturally not decisive what attitude, if any, foreign peoples take toward our works of culture, for we have no doubt that cultural creative work, since it is the most sensitive expression of a talent conditioned by blood, cannot be understood, far less appreciated, by individuals or races who are not of the same or related blood.
Swollen and long, his young prick tunneled deeply into the mouth of her belly. She felt every bit as good as he had imagined. German architecture, sculpture, painting, drama, and the rest bring today documentary proof of a creative period in art, which for richness and impetuosity has rarely been matched in the course of human history.
His hips plunged down. With an excited tremor of desire, his hips bucked forward.
She jerked suddenly awake as cold water splashed in her face. Jewry, with its bolshevist onslaught, might smash the Aryan States and destroy those native strata of the people whose blood destined them for leadership, and in that case the culture which had hitherto sprung from these roots would be brought to the same destruction. She squealed and tried to move away, but a pair of hands in her hair kept her face firmly impaled on a cock. The throbbing heat of her thighs expanded, swirling out in nebulous streams. Her thighs pulsed with a glowing heat.
Thus one can easily imagine that, for instance, in the sphere of religion men will always work backwards to the form-language of a period in which Christianity appeared to meet every need.
The buildings which are arising in the Reich today will speak a language that endures, a language, above all, more compelling than the Yiddish babblings of the democratic, international judges of our culture. He did a little aroused twitch atop her and moaned. The unsteady, groping transition of the nineteenth century led finally in our days to that crisis which in one way or another had to find its solution.
In a rush, like erupting lava, he came. He wanted to just lay, feeling her beneath him, soaking in the liquid warmth of her womanly core, but his body was fired with lust. She lay on her back, her legs spread wide and bent upwards over her head.
They worked together, each trying to satisfy, yet take as much as possible from the other. The growing protest against this crushing of the freedom of the soul and of the will, which had lasted for centuries, immediately opened the way to new forms of expression in artistic creation.
We can today speak with justice of a new awakening of our cultural life, which finds its confirmation not in mutual compliments and literary phrases, but rather in positive evidences of cultural creative force.
Without hesitating, therefore, he declared to Finette that he had come to marry her. Finette’s hostess had scarcely reached the village when she hastened to the house of the steward.
“Marriage or prison, which do you choose?”
“Oh!” cried Finette, laying down the distaff, “there are the firebrands falling all over the room.”
Stroking her cheeks, he began to move back and forth, very gently and slowly, taking great care not to hurt her.
“Villain, may the tongs hold you, and may you hold the tongs till sunset!”
No sooner said than done.
“Oh, I can’t believe it; you have your sweet prick buried all the way into my ass.”
Finette wiggled upon it, testing, experimenting, and her pussy contracted below. But, on entering the house, he was much more surprised and delighted to find a beautiful young girl, with raven hair, sitting by the window and spinning on her distaff with the air of an empress.
“Roll on over, darling–onto your belly, and bring your knees under your body, so your ass pokes up.”
For his only answer, he took a roll of parchment from his pocket, wrote on it a contract of marriage, and declared to Finette that, should he stay all night, he would not leave the house till she had signed the promise.
Finette didn’t give a damn if he did hurt her; anything that happened within her narrow hose would be a wanton rapture, and she slid around upon the meat socked so firmly inside her tail. The moment that the sun set, the tongs fell from the steward’s hands.
“You’re both dripping with my come,” The son said.
“If it should come to the ears of the bailiff or the seneschal,” said he, “the least that would happen to you, mother, would be to lose every one of these beautiful bright guineas. The cockhead is going in you–and wow! It’s really hot and tight in there.”
She knew the exact moment when Yvon came, and rocked the darling girl lovingly in her arms as the tiny ass bucked in hectic spasms. But the son sensed that his mother craved to share that ultimate moment, and pulled his spitting cockhead from his wife’s wringing pussy.
“Have you the tongs?”
“Yes,” said the steward, picking up the crackling coals. He made such leaps, he uttered such groans, he was so blackened, scorched, and benumbed, that everyone in the village was afraid of him, thinking that he was mad.
The bailiff had heard the story of the guineas and had also made up his mind to marry the stranger.
The steward listened to the old woman’s story, shook his head, and said it looked like witchcraft; then he mysteriously brought a pair of scales, weighed the guineas, which he found to be genuine and of full weight, kept as many of them as he could, and advised the owner to tell no one of this strange adventure. Old women do not know how to hold their tongues, at least in Brittany.
The gold melted, bubbled up, and spread all over the house like running water, and behold! the whole cottage, the walls, the thatch, the wooden rocking-chair, the stool, the chest, the bed, the cow’s horns-everything, even to the spiders in their webs, was turned to gold.
He was not rough, like the steward, but a fat, good-natured man that could not speak without bursting into a laugh, showing his great yellow teeth, and puffing and blowing like an ox, though at heart he was not less obstinate or less threatening than his predecessor.
When Finette had milked the cow and drank a little new milk, she threw herself on the bed without undressing, and, worn out by the fatigue of the day, fell asleep in the midst of her tears. Every tender stroke he made into her impaled body was a loving movement, and she could feel the juices of her cunt oozing from her labia to wet her thighs.
“Lay them carefully on the top of the ashes,” returned Finette.
Even when they have decided not to refuse, a gallant man spares their blushes. He did not stop to finish his errand, but ran as if the devil or justice were at his heels. She loved him for his thoughtfulness, and her ass twisted as the starchy rivulet oozed down the crack of her excited ass.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said the steward; “I will pick them up.”
His magical staff was gone again, plunged once more into the sweet, hot glove the girl’s churning pussy, driven to the veined hilt inside her sinuously rolling snatch.
At evening, when Finette returned home in despair, instead of the steward she found another visitor little less formidable.
Before dawn he rose to make his rounds in the direction of the stranger’s cottage.She clasped her hands and begged him with tears to go. Even though she should be something of a witch, such a girl would none the less be a treasure in a family.
“It–it’s fabulous,” she groaned.
Finette gasped as she felt the downpour of her son’s semen, the splattering of the oystery fluid that rained upon her own cunt lips and soaked her pussy hairs.
“Relax as much as you can and stay loose; don’t tighten down on me, and it’ll go fine.”
She kept her word so well that she only told her story that evening to two neighbors, her dearest friends, both of whom swore on the heads of their little children to keep it secret. The young girl burst out laughing, upon which the steward flew into a passion. Her nipples dug into the carpet, and she liked the small pain.
The oath was a solemn one, and so well kept that at noon the next day there was not a boy of six in the village that did not point his finger at the old woman, while the very dogs seemed to bark in their language, “Here is the old woman with her guineas!”
A girl that amuses herself by filling milk-pails with gold is not to be found every day.
Yvon nudged her hip.
“Both my beautiful fuckable cunts are all milky with my semen–my mother’s pussy and wife’s pussy.”
The house gleamed in the moonlight, among the trees, like a star in the night. Justice is impartial; it knows neither favor nor repugnance; it takes the whole. He was fucking his mother from behind, sticking that young boy meat into his mommy’s ass, taking the cherry there that no man or woman had ever touched.
Containing himself, controlling his pent-up emotions, the son was giving them both a magnificent fucking, a priceless screwing they would both remember for the rest of their lives.
Like all men, the steward did himself justice, and knew, at the bottom of his heart, that there was not a woman in the world that would not be too happy to give him her hand. Without warning, his cockhead flexed to spray a burning rain of come into her tubing, and he squeezed her breasts as he let go.
On reaching the place, he was greatly surprised to find a golden cottage instead of the wretched hut that had stood there the day before. The son bent over her, reaching down and around to take hold of her swinging tits, his pelvis grinding hungrily into the soft pillow of her ass. Four lingering strokes, five–then the greasy knob was back below, reaching blindly for the welcoming embrace of his mother’s cunt. He laughed, and hinted to her, in a good-natured way, that, by right of his office, he had the power to imprison and hang people without process of law.
“Abracadabra!” cried Finette, rising.
“If you do not accept me for a husband this very instant, I will arrest you, and before night, perhaps, a witch will be burned before Kerver Castle. You want it like this, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Finette moaned, and realized why the girl had collected the semen.
He jammed it home, and Finette took it breathlessly, joyfully. Inch by exploring inch, the boy’s spongy, hard-cored bulb eased into her ass, and suddenly the length of his stiff prick slid up, up, and his balls settled into the parted vee of her thighs, his pelvis against her cheeks. Boyish prick that had dipped into adult cunts, she thought; such a young cock, to have already fucked two mature women and stroked so often in a girl’s alluring little oven as well; the son would go on sampling women’s vaginas, she knew, making many others happy; she hoped it would always come back to her own.
No one knows who you are or whence you came.
She exulted in what she was able to give him like this. His flanged cockhead reached and withdrew, rolled around inside Finette’s feverish hole and brought her jerking, heaving to a culmination that made her drum her heels upon the floor.
“Don’t let it all get soaked up,” Finette heard the girl say. Finette churned her ass around his meat, coming and coming as he sagged. It was in her; her son’s beloved cock was really in her ass.
Sighing, Yvon disengaged herself rom the tangle, rolling from Finette’s body and off to one side. By the first gleam of day he spied something shining in the distance like a light among the woods.
“We Bretons are plain-spoken people,” replied the steward; “we go straight to the point. The gold that you gave the old woman has raised suspicions.”
Would it hurt? Could it feel as good as that fleeting moment when, in the squirming heat of passion, someone had slipped a finger into her anus? The slippery tip of her son’s glans pressed into the equally greasy knot of her asshole, pushing tenderly. There is magic in this house.
It was useless for him to shout, pray, weep, and blaspheme; no one heard him. The girl jerked with every burying of the slick meat, her tremors passing through her straining body and into Finette’s sensitive flesh.
“Here, baby–let me scoop some of it into my hand–”
Finette started to move, bringing her legs together as she felt her son backing from between them. The son was coming, too, she thought; the boy’s scrotum was shuddering; all that creamy richness was spewing into the childlike vagina, drenching it with his bubbling juices. They were both being rewarded with the fluids of the boy’s wondrous balls, his some purling inside and our of Yvon’s shivering cunt, and smearing itself into Finette’s pulsating box.
He was an important personage, who had more than once made her tremble when she had driven her cow into her neighbor’s pasture by mistake.
“Take it easy, Mom,” he said from behind her. “That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
The old woman thanked the steward for his advice, and promised to follow it. In and out, his balls caressing Finette’s steamy cunt with every stroke, The son pumped his distended tool strongly into Yvon, and Finette could feel them, too. Finette felt her son’s fuzzy balls against the wet mouth of her deprived cunt, the slow back-and-forth swinging of the sack as The son pumped his insatiable rod into his wife’s wriggling body.
The steward, who was a bachelor, made this wise reflection that night on going to bed. She was panting against her folded arms when she felt warm, greasy fingers working the guey stuff into the rim of her asshole, and a violent thrill pierced her, all the way up to her throat. It was to lubricate the head of the son’s cock, so that it would be easier to get into the tightness of her tube. She felt it; she knew the strange, almost frightening sensation and fought to keep from tightening. And slowly, every so slowly, the reluctant circle began to give, to stretch. Closing her eyes, Finette waited, her pulses racing insanely.
“You are very amiable,” said Finette, with a charming grimace; “you have a peculiar way of paying court to ladies.”
The wicked steward stood there all day with the tongs in his hand, picking up and throwing back the burning coals that snapped in his face and the hot ashes that flew into his eyes. Then her son’s sudsy knob was at the hairy ring, his hands braced upon the cheeks of her ass, his knees between her own.
“I am the master here.”
“Easy,” he murmured, “just hang loose, baby.”
“Take care!” said he, in a terrible voice. Rolling her ass, Finette lifted her tits from the rug and dug her fingers into it, arching her back, swaying her hips and taking him, loving him, backing fiercely into him while her cunt leaped and trembled as her maddened clitoris tried to break out of its hood. Finette entreated the bailiff to leave her alone.
Lightly, she kissed his downy cheek and watched the play of the boy’s ballooning knob along her skin, admiring the cunning sculpture of its design and the beauty of its coloring. Flames seared her vagina and her asshole was wiggling steam hose; the son pumped more strongly into it, and she could hear his breath, harsh and uneven in his throat.
Finette had stayed at home, she would doubtless have taken pity on him; but after putting the spell upon him, she hastened to the seashore, where, forgetting everything else, she watched for Yvon in vain.
The boldest tried to speak to him, but he fled without answering, and hid himself in his house, more ashamed than a wolf that has left his paw in the trap.
To the left, if you must know.
“Thank you so much for coming,” says the President of all the United States. “They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint. As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains.”
(It was the thirty-sixth American president, Lydon Johnson, who said that pantyhose ruined finger-fucking).
And yet, at this moment – a moment that will define a generation – it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.
I gaze into his eyes. Only a street address. His pupils are wide, dilated.
”Nobody dismisses me.”
I cross my legs, let my skirt ride halfway up my thighs. Just anything.
Still holding my hand he reads the press card hanging low down my chest. Maybe even glimpse a nipple.
What must the President of the United States think of a foreign correspondent who giggles inanely? He doesn’t seem to mind at all.
I decide I have nothing to lose so I slide the skirt a little higher, right up to the darker stocking top.
“Don’t answer it, Mr. President.”
He works fast.
“It’s so big it can get real lonely sometimes.”
The telephone rings again. For our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals.
Fuck. He admires a lot longer than is quite necessary to read the words on the pass. I have to.
“My secretary will give you the answer to your question on the way out. And those of us who manage the public’s dollars will be held to account – to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day – because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.”
I realize this could be a cue. I shudder, sigh encouragement.
The President of the United States struggles up from the couch, scoots across the Oval Office carpet holding his trousers up with one hand, his rampant cock swaying in front of him.
“You’re new here and I just wanted to meet you.”
I guess he has a busy schedule. I know this dance. Where the answer is no, programs will end.
Now that it’s fully erect, the presidential cock is bent half-way along. He tries to get up but I hold onto his zip. I’ve made a lot of money out of knowing the symptoms.
“I noticed you at the news conference.”
His eyes flicker back to my breasts. He waves me away imperiously, gestures towards the door.
“I feel cold, lonely, exposed, silly.”
Not even the most powerful man in the world. The thought so excites him that he cums right then. I lean forward, put one hand behind his head, pull him down to me, he asks and “oh jesus it’s a lot bigger than where I live”.
He grins again. He changes the subject.
“Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. It is the firefighter’s courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent’s willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate. Sixty-four Sussex Drive.”
It’s a gentle, rolling laugh. I go around the desk to the front, get down on hands and knees and crawl under. He realizes that’s not believable and grins like a small boy caught stealing candy. One hand cups a breast, fingers the nipple, leaves the breast, runs down my belly to my knee.
To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. He struggles to get away. I try to sit on his lap. The hand goes to my pussy. We’re a bit different. It would look really great with a yo-yo hanging from it.
“Call me Bill. Cretin, or something similar.”
So the President of the United States can be a bit kinky. And a lot handsomer, although there’s greying at his temples and lines starting around his eyes. He smells of man and power and really expensive cologne.
“But what if I really, really want something and I’m prepared to pay whatever price?”
I squeeze the presidential hand and put him on.
“Whoever it is can wait.”
”You might get it” he quotes ruefully. His tongue slips between my lips.
“That’s very kind of you.”
Still kissing me, his hand slides up my skirt, past my stocking top.
“For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness.”
“But you’ve got all these flunkies around to do your every whim.”
I let go of his cock. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control – and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous.
When he looks up I hold his gaze to show I know exactly what he’s thinking, provocatively run my tongue around my lips. Sometimes the most powerful man in the world is a little kinky.
“I know. Never want anything too much.”
“So how do you like it? The White House, I mean.”
We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you. The timing is awful. Such a good start.
The most powerful man in the world puts down his pen, gets up from behind the desk and walks toward me across the carpet with his hand out. I sit and smile demurely.
“You saucy hussy you.”
Like the time he talks sweet nothings to his wife on the phone while jerking off in my hair and I have to walk back through the White House and work in the Press Room with the presidential cum doubling as Revlon mousse. Anything you want. The President of the United States is horny. I’ll try and remember.
”Any time you want it”
I’m glad I’m wearing stockings and not pantyhose.
“I’m glad you did.”
“This your first time in the White House, Samantha?”
“My friends call me Sam.”
A telephone rings. I’ve dined there. It fits the dance. He groans. The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works – whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified.
He’s a man who likes breasts. I’ve danced it myself. Please let go.
“We don’t have a White House in Canada,” I blather.
A finger slips easily inside me. I lean towards him so the dress falls open again just like it’s supposed to and he can see my breasts again just like he’s supposed to. I kneel between the presidential legs right in front of the presidential cock still thrusting out of the presidential trousers. Like maybe kiss the President of the United States. Other than that, it’s a fine example of a rampant, rigid medium-to-large, mid-West, middle-aged male sexual organ.
For a moment I wonder if it’s a crude, unpresidential order.To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect.
“I don’t think we’ve met before,” I giggle inanely.
I understand men who like breasts.
“We know where you live.”
His hand is strong. Our Founding Fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. The President of the United States smiles a dazzling, friendly smile, lets go of my hand, gestures me to the deep, leathered couch. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience’s sake. Like the time he hands out awards to a gaggle of Boy Scouts in badges, knotted scarves and cute little khaki shorts. If it is, he’s moving fast.
“To tell the truth, only the really good-looking ones.”
I know the symptoms. I like speed so I take a chance.
“To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society’s ills on the West – know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy,” says the President of the United States. “We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves.”
He’s even bigger than he was in the Rose Garden. I groan back. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.
”They have something to tell us, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages.”
I feel considerably better.
“Lots of times.”
“Like what, Samantha?”
“Call me Sam.”
We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.
I savour his taste. I step out of the thong, toss it on the couch and follow. Thank god I shaved this morning. He has a very nice grin. Like the time he keeps the President of Mexico waiting in the anteroom until I cum, sprawled and groaning in the presidential chair with my skirt hiked up around my waist and the President of the United States ramming a fine Cuban cigar in and out of my pussy.
We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus – and non-believers.
And so to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and we are ready to lead once more. I have to answer it. It can wait. I’m not used to men hesitating when I offer to kiss them.
He sits down behind the desk, picks up the phone.
“Do you meet all the White House correspondents on their first day, sir?”
“I try to.”
Like the time I ask him about the meaning of the Great Seal of the United States of America woven into the centre of the Oval Office’s royal blue carpet.
”You can answer it but. ”
The President of the United States rests a large presidential hand on my thigh, just above my knee.
“Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward.”
I’m alone in the Oval Office with the President of all the United States.
“Pretty good Canadian wine though.”
The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our Gross Domestic Product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on the ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart – not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.
“It means make peace, not war” he says.
It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours.
Still kissing him, I undo the top buttons on my dress, take a presidential hand and guide it inside. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to the suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world’s resources without regard to effect. I angle my shoulders forward so my dress gapes like it’s supposed to and the President of the United States can admire my breasts cupped inside the wispy, black, demi-cut flower-lace bra like he’s supposed to. The Scouts can’t take their eyes off my shaved pussy. His fingers linger. We are the keepers of this legacy.
He stiffens for a moment, grasps the idea and bends.
“Please honey,” he laughs.
Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort – even greater cooperation and understanding between nations. It’s the yellow phone. Just a little.
I pretend to be the kidnapper negotiating ransom in a thousand movies. It’s a perfectly normal White House scene – a reporter sitting on the couch taking notes during a routine presidential ceremony – except that on presidential instructions I’m wearing a miniskirt with no panties and don’t always remember to keep my legs crossed.
Possibly even a nipple or two.
With old friends and former foes, we’ll work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. For the world has changed, and we must change with it. For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. Particularly the female good-looking ones.
He pulls his hand out from under my skirt and sits up. Immediately I’m embarrassed. With that French guy who hardly speaks English.
I pull down the zip, fumble inside his trousers for the presidential cock, find it half erect, pull it out.
I smile sweetly throughout the ceremony and wonder what the hell the kids tell their parents. Like the time he fucks me on my hands and knees on the presidential desk while I study a photograph of him with his wife and daughter at some beach and try not to knock Top Secret files off the desk. He pushes me off.
Suddenly everything’s going so wrong. He takes his eyes off my legs, sits on the couch next to me. Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with the sturdy alliances and enduring convictions.
He hesitates. He groans, pushes me back on the couch, half under him. All my friends do. But the moose was a little tough.
Still standing, the present American president studies my legs. While he’s fucking me he explains that underneath me – only inches from my nipples in fact – is an eagle clutching arrows in one claw, olive branches in the other.
“You want an answer to your question?”
For a moment I don’t know what he’s talking about. We shake hands. What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them – that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply.
Casually I put my small hand on top of the large hand on my thigh. Stocking tops and garter-belts are so much sexier than pantyhose. I don’t mean to be rude.
I reach for the presidential zipper. I shift on the couch to give him a better view. We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. The rumours are true.
I lift my buttocks so he can pull my thong down. But what if my getting his rocks off stops him from raising taxes or getting really, really mad and dropping bombs on people he doesn’t like?
What if I’m not just getting the world’s most powerful rocks off?
What if instead, I’m actually helping poor people and saving innocent lives around the world, all at the same time? What if I’m nobly performing a vital public service!
I decide I deserve the Nobel Peace Prize and wonder what I’ll wear at the ceremony.
In between thrusts the President of the United States and Commander-in-Chief of the most powerful military the world has ever known, explains that the eagle’s head is turned away from the arrows towards the olive branches.
His lips touch mine. His answer is to reach up my skirt, pull down my panties, push me onto hands and knees in the middle of the Oval office.
“I got her some funny stuff that a shoemaker in Parker gave me once when I had the tooth-ache.”
“Right about face! One block west, and–here we are.”
Jill hated to see her lover whipped and yet the thought of it entranced her.
As they continued to push her across the barn, past all the awful farm machinery with the sparkling blades and the sex devices, the two types of equipment looking remarkably similar in many respects, and quite confusing to Jill, Beth struck her tits.
“–helped her out a little,” continued Gail, “and by that time the bell rang, so there was no opportunity for any further investigations.”
“You never told us anything about the river being so near here, grandpa.”
“Keep her wide open,” she warned Beth.
“So what do you buy her, toys and lollipops?” Rob asked.
Her pokings were driving deeper and deeper now.
“There is still an hour and a half before luncheon will be served, and that ought to give you quite an opportunity to make discoveries.”
Oprah Winfrey had been right. Yet Jill did not move.
She looked at Dave and, when he smiled at her, she blew him a kiss.
“Beth and Jill will tie you up, so I can begin.”
“Now, Faith,–but there is really no need of asking her about her discoveries.”
She would be sore for at least a day, if not more. He sat down on the matted floor and the two men gazed absently at each other’s penises.
Angela smiled. She could sleep in her bonds, standing up.
“She’ll probably see a lot before she’s through.”
It was a small, accidental thing, but Dave felt strangely naked and possessed walking through the farm equipment ahead of Rob.
Her legs, bare as the rest of her, quivered beneath her. Yet the work was intimate and he was forced to lean over the other man and breathe down upon him.
Their cocks were utterly spent and their balls hung down like old men’s balls, ever more descendant, never rising, even as the cool crisp morning air touched them.
She pushed her forward again, more gently. But he didn’t want to struggle against Rob, somehow.
It was just one of those acts of kindness born of the impulse of the moment and made possible because of a shortcut to the station and the grocer’s wagon which stood hitched in front of Mr. Where the belt had struck her a broad red mark cut across her bottom.
Hartman’s door. Campbell,when the shout of laughter at Faith’s sally had died away.
She stood in it in her high heels.
“OWOOOOOO!” Poor Jill howled as the crop caught one of her nipples again.
Jill could feel a cool brisk passing of air wash over her where ususally she was comfortably closed.
Beth ambled past the workmen but did not acknowledge them. And he’s an awful nice man.
Yet here was her boyfriend, about to lose his own anal virginity!
“Ow!” Dave groaned.
“Okay, it felt good, but I still didn’t like it,” Dave replied.
She gave it to Angela. A fat, sleek, black Tabby lay asleep on the warm porch-rail; a gaunt, ungainly greyhound lay sunning himself on the door mat, and from inside somewhere came the sound of a canary’s riotous song.
As Jill watched through tear-stained eyes their cocks, despite their best intentions, banged together again. It was useful to catch hold of her when she tried to squirm away, as she did now.
Now the moment of truth had come.
“My hands are getting tired!” Beth complained. Dave accepted it and drank somewhat self-consciously from it.
“I must go back to the University at once.”
The men laughed lamely but then shared a glance that seemed full of potential.
“Only I wanted to see if the horses looked anything like Black Prince. When I told him that, he got interested and fin’ly showed us some books he was trying to study, but he can’t see sense in the grammar.”
There was a soft upholstered chair, only one, and there was a bale of hay.
“You can make them the happiest people on earth if you want to–and I know you do.”
Jill was put over Rob’s mouth. Now her need was intense and she could barely contain her emotions as she flicked the penis whip down upon Jill’s poor teats.
“Well, well, well!” he cried with boyish eagerness, trying to gather them all in one embrace.
Then, with Jill and Beth, happily cooperating, the men were unfastened. The effect was to force Jill to squat, not in a deep bend but in a partial, standing squat, with her knees drawn far apart and latched to the barn walls.
“This is a pretty big house, and we’ve got to hustle if we get all around it in an hour and a half.”
After that she was a little pleasanter to us–that is, for a time.
Of course after he sat down on the chair he remembered, looking at Rob from behind, that Rob had no seat in his pants.
They hung down from her waist like broken shoelaces.
She realized she was hitting the girl’s breasts harder than she wished, causing her excessive pain, but she couldn’t help herself.
The next ninety minutes were busy ones in the Campbell house, and it was necessary to ring the dinner bell twice before all members of the happy family were summoned to the table.
How she wished she were in Jill’s place! Instead she was forced to be the male, while two men beside her played games with themselves.
Beside her the elbow restraint kept her arms firmly beside her hips. Angela permitted a towel to be hung in front of each, on the wall, to save their peeslits from getting splinters in them.
“Neither to her own lover,” Angela said. She went to the dressing room and returned with a stylish policeman’s cap.
Below the lowermost cheeks of her bottom, seen through her slit dress, was a small tuft of pubic hair, lining her wet lips.
Dave, wincing a little at the contact, threw his face and shoulders onto the floor and reached back and spread his ass with both hands.
She’d spent all afternoon riding with Rob, her steed galloping powerfully beneath her.
“Guess this ride must make you feel ticklish, too,” suggested Peace, looking over her shoulder with a comical, self-complacent air at the crowded rear seat of the carryall.
Then she’s quite demanding.
From the barn emerged five exhausted figures. Above her back quavered, fearing a similar treatment, While her thighs, bent underneath her, could just as easily fall victim.
Jill no longer wore the elbow restraints, just the gear belt. Her elbows were fixed to her waist.
Campbell soothingly. She looked as if she was squatting to pee, a camper in the forest intent on relieving herself in the bushes.
They were open toed but the soles were just thick enough to keep her toes from being wet by her pee. They could play all night if they wished, and all day.
The little whip that had flogged Jill’s lover, castigating his balls, now slashed across her breasts.
” What have you been doing this morning?”
“Oh, lots of things,” she sighed heavily.
“Give me your hand, Hope.”
The remark made Jill so frightened she couldn’t even scream.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that as a compliment, Mr.”
“You are too pokey,” Angela said, not wanting to shove Jill again, for fear of hurting her, but nonetheless giving her an insistent forward push.
He finished off his beer. Rob let him walk ahead of him, toward the back of the barn.
“That should keep you quiet,” Beth grinned. “We are anxious to hear how you like your new home–mother and I.”
They both got the men to spreadtheir arms and legs and the girls stood on tiptoe to lock the men into shackles hung from the wall.
The five of them lay sprawled on the floor, feeling the warmth of their bodies and the agreeable satiation that settled over them.
Quite casually he added, “Have you ever been buggered?”
“Huh? No,” Dave answered.
Angela and Beth had found satisfaction, albeit belatedly, and with each other, but nonetheless attaining their climaxes.
She tossed back her head but could hear nothing issuing from her throat. His voice trailed off. The horse had just put his big head down to drink from it.
“We’re all bones of condescension today–now what are you laughing at?”
“Oh, we’ve reached the station already,” chirped Allee with a suddenness which made everyone jump.
It burned exceedingly from the blow.
“Spread yourself for me,” he ordered.
He was being untied by Rob, but despite her screams he seemed utterly unaware of her plight.
“Marmalade and Champagne,” Peace repeated more slowly.
Jill’s ribs rose gasping and then fell again.
She glanced down at her breasts with deep anxiety. Rob was beefy and Dave guessed Rob might be able to best him in a struggle.
A particularly wicked stroke sliced into Jill’s bottom and made her head fling back and her ass gyrate ridiculously. It was not a potential that included her.
“Oh, I can’t! I mustn’t!” Jill pleaded. “I just noticed that if I had to fuck an ass, it might be yours I’d prefer.”
Her titties stung from the whip. And between her legs, still sore from being fucked, she wished to have another; her lover, this time, or even one of those rough men she’d passed on her way to the barn. Tears welled up in her eyes almost instantly as the penis whip landed across her bouncy teats.
“How’s it feel to be off that insidious bar?” Rob asked Dave. “If you’ve got ten rooms in your house, how many are you going to turn over to us? For our very own, I mean.”
“Yes,” he replied, glancing hastily out of the window, “I think very likely it was, as they live on the corner we have just passed, and the next street is where we get off.”
“Now, little one, you’re going to get quite a treat up your ass,” Angela laughed when the cock was finally ready. She kept Jill’s cheeks wide apart.
“I visited all the rooms upstairs and down; fed the canary; got acquainted with Blinks, the cat, and Kyte, the hound; found Towzer and tried to make him be friends with Kyte, but he wouldn’t be coaxed.”
Angela glanced at Beth.
“Yes, I like the horses and I like the people.”
Campbell joined in his merriment.
“I guess that’s how he came to speak to Hope about it.”
“I’m going to discipline those boobs of yours,” Beth said sweetly to Jill. “They aren’t as pretty as our Black Prince, ’cause they are only red, and a red horse is never as nice as a black–”
“Horses! What funny names!” laughed Hope.
Beth still held the penis whip. Angela let Jill savor the sting. A puddle of her pee lay on the rubber-matted floor around and between her feet. Both men felt like they were in a locker room.
“I mean, it’s not like, you know.”
Dave shifted his hips on the cushion as best he could to keep his own stiffening cock out of the way of Rob’s.
“Yeeow! That’s cold,” Dave shouted.
The dark-haired woman watched Jill’s teats with cunning jealousy. A silent scream could be seen trying to break from her.
He seemed mesmerized by Rob’s pants and Rob seemed equally interested in Dave’s ordeal upon the horse. They pushed her forward again. She wet the sponge and then laved it across the jutting spheres of Jill’s bottom. Awkwardly, trying to protect her nether cheeks with her hands and yet also obeying, Jill got to her knees. She smiled sleepily at the workmen as she passed them.
“I’m going to whip you into shape!” Beth, perhaps to avoid being struck by the whip, for it dangled close to where she was lying, got up.
The woman, who was blonde like Jill but older, stepped forward again and did up Jill’s hair.
“I told him she’d be glad to help him with ‘xamples he couldn’t do, ’cause she was Professor Watson’s star scholar in that.”
The two men were kneeling on the black-matted floor, Rob behind Dave, Rob upright on his knees and Dave well-bent to allow the other man entry into his butt.
“We hadn’t got the knob of her door turned before she ordered us out of her room and told us to mind our own business.”
“Huh? No,” Dave replied, but as he looked up Rob doused his big meaty penis with beer.
It only enflamed her more.
“Gussie’s room is just suburb! It’s dec’rated with the queerest looking old bird of a bedstead–”
“Peace! What slang!” cried Faith in genuine horror.
Jill tried to protest but the gag blocked all sound. Between its open halves her crack could be seen.
“Hope, what have you to say for yourself?”
Jill’s gasps increased. Dave just stared at the whip. Her nipples burned, yet they remained resolutely stiff, as if inviting kisses and suckling. Jill gasped at her posture. She felt like a spitted pig. Rob passed him the beer that he’d used to wet his penis with.
“Such sexy little boobs,” Beth replied, and hit her again, harder, watching wide-eyed as the tiny crop smacked Jill hard.
Beth pinched her bottom and spread her rubbery cheeks as wide as she could. Jill kept her hands protectively over her bottom, lying face down on the floor, but she did not cover the most essential part, the furrow between. Then Angela rolled Beth beneath her and turned around so they could engage in a 69.
Beth fetched a small cushion and put it under Jill’s face.
“Maybe that is what’s the matter,” Peace agreed thoughtfully.
“You want a beer? You look like you could use a beer,” Rob offered.
Despite Angela’s warning, despite his posture, with his arms wide and his feet wide, his balls hanging utterly naked between his legs, he arched his hips forward and rubbed his cock against the towel. Refracts is the word she wants to use.
“YNNNNNNGH!” Jill shouted as a stroke landed right across one of her uprisen nipples. Having gone up as far as she dared in such a young, inexperienced girl, she now began to draw back.
“No,” Dave answered.
With frustration she massaged her cunt as she watched Jill dance with renewed energy. The blonde tossed back her head and pinched Jill’s hot bottom. There was loose hay on the floor in this part of the barn. Beth brought the whip down again on her bosoms. Jill’s cunny felt open and awake.
“I’ll survive, though. Just get some water, over there, the fresh water the servant left for the horse to drink, and wet her behind down for me.”
They tipped their hat to her, as they had to Jill, who’d ignored them. She felt like a cat plunged into water, trying to shake it off.
“I’m going to hit you as hard as I can,” Angela said to Jill. “It could be done just splendid! I’ll show you after lunch if you don’t b’lieve me.”
“Peace!” reproved Gail in an undertone, trying to check the flow of questions and information pouring so rapidly from the lively tongue.
He wished he could rub himself against the towel. As Jill was urged forward she managed to turn and glance back at her boyfriend. The men reached the dressing room area. Gussie said there were some kittens in the basement, so I went down there to find them, but the boy from the hardware store was there working on the furnace, and some way we fell to talking about studies, and he was so discouraged over his algebra lesson for night-school that I stopped to see if I could help him out a little, and the bell rang Just as we got the third problem worked.
Angela’s slit leather dress flipped jauntily against her bare bottom.
“Gussie told me how it was when I spoke of Marie’s being cross, but we never touched a thing; we just looked, didn’t we, Allee? Marie had the tooth-ache, and that’s enough to make anyone ugly.”
Angela, though less concerned for Jill’s welfare, ceased shoving and pushing her.
“I always thought Normal School was where they sent bad boys and girls who couldn’t be good at home, but she says I mean Reform School.”
Then, rising, her own heavy breasts swinging beneath her as she lifted up the bucket, she stepped back.
“The floor will have to do,” Angela said.
“Ooooweeee! Take it out!” Jill begged. “Three in a room makes things awfully crowded if the rooms are as teeny as they were in our house in Parker.”
“Yes, I will,” responded the child with angelic sweetness, in such loud tones that she could be heard all over the car. Red streaks appeared across the white flesh of Jill’s precious bosoms, the breasts she was so embarrassed about and yet so proud of. Wash down her bottom.
Angela let her belt dip in it and stir it.
“Why, what do you mean?” cried the astonished mistress of the house, while the President nodded his head in approval at the child’s observations.
“But we are glad to know this old town holds a tender spot in your memories.”
She rocked her bare hips back and forth, wishing for pleasure, watching as Angela’s hips rocked to bugger Jill.
“Well let me do the buggering then!” Dave answered.
Hand in hand they walked up the path and through the door into the big hall, flooded with warm sunshine and sweet with the smell of roses.
As soon as she’d regained her balance Beth struck her again with the whip.
“Well, Gussie is good-natured and ‘bliging, while Marie is cross and grouchy.”
“This is home, dear.”
“Well, thanks,” Dave said sardonically.
“God, she is tight,” Angela remarked. “It isn’t as if we were bound for the poor-farm or some dreadful orphan home.”
He shouted as Rob began jacking his cock, forcing an emission from his own penis even as his bowels received one.
“Oooh! Oooch! Ooooh!” Jill cried in explosive little gasps. Dave felt his cockhead push into the soft towel Beth had hung for him. She left off whipping Dave to give him his due. At Angela’s command she leapt to her lover’s side and helped pull him up off the floor.
Jill expected the party to be over then. Jill herself had cum over her own fingers, in front of her boyfriend, and in the arms of Rob. The strap would keep her exercised.
“We think they are very intelligent animals.”
Gussie promised to help him, but she never has much time for such things, and he thinks she thinks he’s a plumb dunce.
“Those Parker people tried to tell me it was my place to stand in the doorway over at the house and welcome you there, but blessed if I could wait! Neither could Grandma.”
She squeezed her ass cheeks and knew they would be the next to suffer.
by Angelia Stringer
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