“I’m begging you.”Fiercely hard, it was too easy to breech her. She coated me quickly, broiling hot, so wet that I could pound her with ease. ...he precariousness of our situation made it a different kind of slow, not out of boredom but torture.I paused, half-in, half-out and felt how snug she held me. Pressing on, Marianne shuddered with a yelp.“God, you are so hard.”“Would you like to fuck there? There with them so they could watch?”I had to say it, I had to push the boundaries, this might. I watched it slowly fade from your lips as you leaned in heavily. We kissed. I felt the warm burn of your whiskey-laden tongue trace over my scars, like you were trying to coax them into revealing the stories they hid.I pulled back. You pressed forward.You whispered something into my ear to silence the voices. Voices that screamed like the howling shrill of wolves stalking prey in the cold, dark wood. Voices that haunted you too and only when we meshed them together would they cancel each other. Back to that day twelve years ago when I had escorted Mary Murphy and her mother Betty back from the cemetery after burying her husband, her son of ten and her daughter of thirteen. All three incinerated in a car crash. The only way they were able to identify them was by DNA and dental records.After the wake I sat on the sofa with both these women sobbing their hearts out on my shoulders. Betty, the mother who lived with Mary and her family, soon left to lie on her bed leaving the pair of us. Greg of course was slipping his hand up inside his daughter's panties right that moment. Only the rising tide of his wife's arousal snapped him back to the real world. "Jesus Trace," he mumbled, "You're really up for it tonight aren't you?" he added, in response to the already accumulated moisture on-site. "Sure you're not thinking about our conversation just now?" The fact is, Tracey was imagining those very fingers encroaching upon her daughter's undoubtedly virginal and fully-unchartered.
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