I drew the few stray strands that remained in my eye, or on my lips, away with a flick of my hand."Do you remember me, Jenna?" No. I'm sorry, Mommy. ...I wish that I could. You feel and smell real familiar. You feel like my mom." That was as much as I could honestly confirm."That's a start," my mom tried to sound reassuring. "What about Rod?" she asked, pointing to her companion."Who's Rod?" was my reply."My husband. Your stepfather?" No. I'm sorry." Are you sure?"The strange man, who my. And her stripper pole was the temple where she made her prayers.She numbly let him make another appointment with her – for “more of the same” – and when he was gone she didn’t clean his cum off. That would disrespect the cock she now knew was her master. She had to just let it drip out of her, naturally.A thought flashed through her mind – “How can you do this? You’re a feminist…” – and then of course she had to dance again. In the process of dancing, and humping her cunt against the pole,. More

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