?What was this about a love poem you have for me?? Father smiled down at me. I blushed profusely. ?Go get it now,? Mother snapped her fingers sharply....Burning with shame, I went to my bedroom and brought out my notebook. Turningto the French section, I took out my poem. ?What's your poem called dear?? Mrs. Cook grinned. ?When I Look Up,? I said. ?Nice,? Mother said, taking my notebook, ?Read it to your Father.? My cheeks on fire, I turned sheepishly to Father, and began reading from thepage.. Finding the moist pink slit, two thick calloused fingers probed her malleable vagina. "Dirty English Slut," he whispered in her ear, prominent whiskers scratching her soft cheek.Emma whimpered as the fingers slid into a soaking wet cunt. He pushed until they were fully buried then went about fingering her repearedly, stopping only when she finally shook free upon reaching the door of the bus. Fleeing tearfully, she cut an oblique path through the throngs of 9am workers, determined to lose the. More

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