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“Mornin Cunt”, he said in his deep, but raspy, I just woke up, voice. He drove his knee between her legs, nudging her to take heed, move her feet, and spread her legs apart for him. Taking his two fingers he glided them smoothly down the center of her spine, along the crease of her ass and between her legs, feeling her drenched cunt with juices already flowing down her inner thighs, parting her sweet pussy lips, then plunging them deep inside. She gasped! It sucked the breath right out of her, no warning, nor tender kisses shared. He didn’t even rub her clit or care if she was even wet or not. Not that the latter mattered much since he knew her body and she knew she was immediately in a state of arousal. Fuck, it was like he was Pavlov and she was the bitch panting whenever she heard his voice or felt his presence. Shit, he could be outside tending to his rose bushes, and she inside the house and if he even called her name to ask her to bring him a beer, she’d be wet. It always. " Bang bang, the door went again. I flung the door back. "Jesus, ALRIGHT! Lisa?" I stood aghast, it was my pal Lisa from facebook. How to explain Lisa? Its tough, she is somewhat a force of nature. Lisa sings for a metal outfit called Death's Hand and, when in character, she goes by the stage name of Blonde Witch of the North. As her name suggests, she rocks platinum blonde hair. Long and dead straight. She struts the stage in a shining, tighter than tight latex catsuit, zippered down well past the navel, her wonderful tits barely held in place with Hollywood tape. As tall and imposing as Lisa already is, she further enhances that on stage with knee high patent leather spike heeled boots. On stage and in life she had real presence. Today however, she was dressed head to foot in rocker babe noir: black leather biker jacket with a tight wife beater under that. The jacket was zipped half way up sort of cinching in to further enhance her wonderful tits, so much better in real life. She.
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