Ginger’s cunt was wet. The juices matted the blonde hairs. The lips were swollen and slick. Ginger sat on the floor with her legs open. She wore an orange jersey with a portrait of Elvis. Her nipples made distinct points above Elvis’s ears. She panted trying to gather her thoughts. Steve had wanted her to humiliate herself so she had. But he wanted more.
“I don’t think so,” Ginger said.
“I do think so.”
Ginger looked at him.
“He might not want to, Steve, and I don’t want to,” she said.
“You sound like your pleading, Gin.”
“I’m not pleading.”
“I like his picture. He looks like a nice guy.”
“So what?” Her head was spinning.
“So, I feel like watching him fuck you.
“Steve, stop this.”
She wished she’d never told him about Paul or showed him the picture, not that he didn’t know. It had pleased Steve to learn that Paul was young like himself but not muscular, a guy who wouldn’t pose a challenge to Steve’s vanity. Well, it was true, she supposed. Paul was th...
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