Oh, my God. What time…, wait it’s fucking Saturday. Saturday! I’m so messed up, what when wrong?” The fleshly and over-sexed 23 year old whisp...red in her head. A faint and feeble flavor of crotch and cum stuck in her throat like the seasoning of a Christmas goose. The taste vivid on her dry lips; the memory muted by the rounds of rum. Tricia Saratopia, an attractive and confident deli clerk from Hampton, New Hampshire stirred about, shifting uneasily in her bed slowly; almost slow motion,. “Ooh wee,” the warehouse worker barked. “You be wearing me out.”“That’s a good thing,” CiCi countered.“Hell yeah,” he smiled. “I better get home. When you want me to come back?”“How about Sunday?”“Yeah. Just text me.”CiCi walked his departing guest to the door. He locked it behind him and swallowed the remainder of his gin. He looked at the window to watch the fine ass brother walk to his jet black 1997 Cadillac DeVille. Always slightly buzzed before letting that b**st of a dick ravage his. More

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