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"She's pretty arrogant. She has a 'Sexual Control Handbook' posted under the BDSM stuff. It reads like a 'Blackmail for Idiots' guide. I scanned it and there are a few basics, one is never, ever display anger or affection until you have the fish netted, gutted, and hopelessly under your thumb. One of the other rules is, never ask for money or gifts. To do so leaves a trail that could be used for legal action. I guess blackmailing for sex is harder to prove than blackmailing for money." Arrogance isn't the word for her," Rob added.Brenda looked at him, "Since Dave's going to be gone a few days, I am going to take him upstairs and say goodbye properly while you chat with Tracy." Wooooo-woooooo," Tracy yelled through the speaker. "Kiss him once for me."Dave looked a little sheepish, but followed her willingly. Tracy and Rob laughed."You know you can send her this way anytime. She's a real babe! I didn't realize how hard looking at all this stuff was going to be all by my lonesome. I am. Brittany and I werebent over at the waist with our hands on the ground, our long, blond,curly trusses getting in each others faces, getting royally fucked in ourasses. I could hear Chantz and Thad making out above us, and I foolishlyleaned in to see if I could make out with Brittany. Brittany somehowdropped herself lower and took my nipple chain in her mouth. Then,almost as if on cue, Chantz and Thad separated, grabbed onto theirrespective bitch's hair and yanked back as hard as possible, drivingtheir dicks into the depths of our asses. Unfortunately for me, themotion on Brittany's head caused the nipple clamps to be ripped clean offmy tits, causing me to fall to the ground in pain, and simultaneouslyremoving the invader from my ass. The room burst into laughter. Even Brittany doubled over in laughter asshe continued to get slammed in the ass. Chantz wasted no time slidingunder me and jamming her cock into me reverse cowgirl style. I was intoo much pain to ride her, so she.
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Our stomachs would growl for hours before we could finally partake. Jeff, brought suddenly back to the present by the blare of a semi’s air horn, swerved back into his own lane, shook his head, and carefully took the turn off for highway 120. It was sad how the memories of those sweet, sweet seasons had all been washed away by a sea of chilled cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon and pint-sized bottles of E&J. Jeff enters the familiar house cautiously, reluctantly, wishing he did not have to perform this duty. His mother meets him at the door, attempting to smile through her pain, and hugging and kissing him warmly. Moving into the space off the kitchen where his father’s bed had been placed, he becomes intensely aware of the cloying scent of death. Jeff knows the smell only because several years earlier, a few mice he had poisoned had died inside the walls of his house. The idea itself is a horror to him and he fights to force down the sourness in his throat. The deep, deep red of his father’s.

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