But i stared through the opening in her boxers at that meticulously groomed triangle of silky black pussy hair. And she watched me stare. And she shif...ed her weight from one leg to the other, rocking her hips slowly. She put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. And her nipples hardened, poking against the sheer material. And she frowned, in an effort to hide her grin. And my cock pulsated. And i looked up into her eyes as i twisted my hips around to point it directly at her. The sunlight. On a winter day in 1956, a weary Ada, today looking every one of her seventy years of age, struggled up the dirt road from Brook House toward Hagen’s saw mill, being supported on one side by her husband, a somber William Hagen, and on the other side by Ada’s only surviving son, a quietly snuffing Daniel Raven. Ada was carrying a small casket under her arm because Beth Raven couldn’t bear to handle it herself. When they reached the glen halfway between Brook House and the mill, Ada stooped next. More

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