I wondered if I was the reason.There was something else, though, besides her being younger than I remembered last. I didn’t remember her ever wearin... her hair curled up like a French poodle on top of her head. And she was wearing makeup. Back in 1952, as I remembered it ... well, Mom was no June Cleaver. She dressed nicely enough for housework and got dressed up for church on Sunday. But makeup? What the fuck?What she was saying didn’t really make a difference since I couldn’t respond.. Loud popping sounds of sucking echoed in the tight quarters of the pit… the hallowed feast found my ankles, my lower leg as hot saliva left it’s torrid path. Cupping my fleshy thigh, Cindi’s mouth violently devoured my chubby limb as if she suddenly went mad… frantic for deliverance… desperate for any nourishment I was willing to provide her with. Mouth agape and eyes closed, Cindi lunged forward with struggling fervor as my hairless vagina was taken hostage. I took in a long, winded breath as. More

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