Dark hair, olive eyes.
What are you doing here? My Daddy’s downstairs.
Loose white singlet, nipples poking through.
No, that’s crude. Crudecrudecrude.
A fistful of hair, air squeezed out of her.
You have to go.
Empty words through soft whimpers.
Hands on her throat, clawing, digging, squeezing. Choke.
Like a kitten frozen by her mother, she’s still.
Eye contact. Hands go limp.
A rough kiss. Tears and sweat and saliva. Saliva so sweet it beckons another kiss.
Fabric tears. Shorties slink down slender legs kissed by sun. Cheerleader legs.
She watched him by the seats, on the field, wondering, wanting, wavering.
Pink cotton panties. Little bow tie. Lips showing through.
No, this isn’t right. My Daddy will hear.
Good little catholic girl. Saintly. Church every Sunday. Good. Proper. Well-behaved. Never smoked. Never drinks. Loyal to God.
A fistful of hair, dragged down degradingly, wet lips trailing his stomach.
Fabric tears. Jeans fall off, no belt, lips trailing, voice muffled, fistful of hair, down on his cock.
A pause. Resistance. She looks, eye contact, raises her mouth to speak. A single string of saliva connecting his cock to her lips.
Resistance. Force. Her mouth goes down. Hits the back of her throat. A gag. She continues. Compelled. Forced. Intrigued.
Time. An age. Her – confused, eager. Well behaved. God will love her.
He pushes her on her back, slick, aching. Throbbing. Pulsating. Wanting.
Pink cotton panties come peeling off down legs with skin like freshly peeled fruit.
Shaven. Fresh. Who’d have thought?
A blush. Burning skin. Ferocious aroma. Slink sleepily into a saintly slumber. Duty. It’s piercing when he enters her. It’s piercing when she stares at him.
dark hair, olive eyes
It’s piercing when he stares back at her. His cock reaching inside, claiming as far as it goes.
She flushed red. Sighs. Moans. Cries.
Vessel for the taking. Well behaved little catholic girl.
Jesus fucking Christ.