Her choice was to control what he did with his tongue, and she pushed him onto his back on the bed. She straddled his head with her legs and hovered ...ust inches over his mouth. “This is called the floating butterfly,” she said, “because I can control what you do, how much pressure, and so on, by lowering myself and moving however it feels good.” “Works for me,” Gary murmured. “Can I stroke my cock until you’re ready to fuck?” he asked. “Sure; do whatever you want, but make sure you pay. I entered my home with some reservation. "Hory?" I'm in the loft, Mother. Climb up." It was from my bed he called me. His own lay by the iron stove. Grandpa Regis had a room townsfolk would call a closet. My son had latched him shut in there. We did fear him at night. In the morning I would wipe the drool from his face and the stink from his flesh. Often he would grab my breasts and grin at me. Sometimes he barked like a raccoon. I suffered the man, for he was a lost soul. My son had a powerful. More

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