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she didn’t look at it –or at her bank account—then it was like she had spent nothing at all.
Greg with his bent cock and his expert tongue. Stuart with his battle-scarred face and his penchant for piss-play. Lewis with his oily hands–a mechanic by trade—and his tender kisses. Waylon with his country twang and his ability to make her go cross-eyed with his fingers. And then there was George, a quiet and mousy man that could fit his entire fist so far up Jodi’s pussy, she felt as if he was tickling her uterus.
Jackson had been the only man for her, in the romantic sense. His tragic death had not only ended his life, but also her concept of love.
Now, she was hosting almost bi-weekly orgies, where each man took turns stuffing
her, pumping her, filling her, and staining her.
Right after a filled her cunt-tunnel wit’ my love-snot, she turn’t around and said ‘boy, you ain’t nothin’ to write home about’! I showed her. Cracked her upside the head and… did her up the hole she tolt me not ta use. She done cried her a river when she woke up halfway through all the fun. ‘Getcher pecker outta thare!’ she hollered! But I ignored her and rutted her dirt-chute ‘til I was good and drained.”
A map of memories stretched out like egg
yolks on the pavement. His brains actually began to sizzle in the oppressive heat.
She grabbed the hilt of the knife and pressed it in deeper. The Man stood still, holding his breath, and glancing down at the protrusion.
“No one rides for free.” Jodi said as she pulled the knife out.
