DIRTY DADDIES
I’m babbling, my fingers scrambling, nails scratching the granite.
I’m not a person anymore. I’m a collection of sensations: pain, fullness, the wet, slapping sounds of our skin, his filthy words in my ear.
That’s when I see him. Mr. Henderson, my ancient, prune-faced neighbor, is standing at his kitchen window across the yard. His jaw is on the floor.
He’s watching it all—my face twisted in ecstasy, Leo’s tattooed arms holding me down, my ass jiggling with every brutal thrust.