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A pair of dommes had made an attempt at providing a decent flogging but I needed something stronger.
I was about to give up and ask to be released when Trace saw me.
There were six of us seated in the back of the stretch limousine: my father-in-law, Brigadier General Gable M.
Donaldson and his wife, Lois, my aforementioned brother-in-law and his wife and Mary Ellen, my dead husband's younger sister now in her fourth year at West Point.
This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living, dead or otherwise is purely coincidental, etc.
Copyright 2003 **** Choke on it bitch, commanded my brother-in-law.
British bayonets had gutted a Uriah Donaldson at Bunker Hill.
Trace and his driver were killed instantly according to the letter I got from his commander. The Humvee had burned and several pieces of ordinance had exploded inside the cab.
He had a painfully firm grip on the back of my neck forcing my mouth downward until his cock head blocked my throat opening. Donaldson, sensing that his pecker had arrived at my esophagus, pushed harder and I felt that rock solid piston of man meat painfully descend another inch, scrapping the delicate tissue lining my gullet.