”“Should I start twerking?”“Oh, hell yes!” she whispered in a way that sounded almost like a plea.I began to twerk into her with long steady...twerks, each one finding its way deeper as she spread her legs with butter. She greased me up. I could feel her flinch once in a while, but I could tell she was questioning her relationship with her father. She had gone through a scary rite of passage into womanhood and found it to be something her father would disaproove of. “God, it feels so good,” I. ”“I see. How do you know it is mine?” Jean asked bitterly. “How do you know it is not Le Gris’ bastard in your belly?”“I am too far along for it to be his,” Marguerite explained. “You don’t remember? The night before you left for Paris, you had me. You were exhausted and sick, but I used my mouth on you until you were ready, then I sat on your cock, and you spilled your seed inside me. That night you made your heir.”“How fortunate,” Jean said rather snidely. He was growing angry again. “Tell me. More

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