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He stared intensely at me as I pushed down further, feeling him enter me fully. Placing my hands on his chest I began to move up and down on him while...grinding my hips on him in a circular motion. His hands were on my hips and he moved himself up to match my rhythm. I let out long moans of pleasure as I moved on him. Feeling the tightness I began to increase my pace, our breath becoming ragged, my cries increasing in volume. His hand moved from my hips to my clit where he began to rub and flick. They had to be, or why did she treat me like she did. Mothers had to love their children. Didn't my Mother always tell me she only did the things she did because she loved me?Suddenly, I felt a large hand on my shoulder. A deep but feminine voice said. "Doctor, is there a problem? Do you need me to handle him for you?"Speaking firmly but softly Doctor Johnson said. "Martha, be very gentle with George. Do you remember Lucy last year?"I felt the hand on my shoulder begin to tighten. "Yes. Did he. He was dressed differently than when they'd met, but it fit him. A well-loved pair of Levi's stuffed into a recently shined pair of black leather boots, a short-sleeved shirt not quite buttoned all the way, allowing a peek at tattoos she never imagined were covering his chest in the business suit she was used to seeing him in, and a black leather vest, of all things."Wha - what is all this?" She managed, her voice almost squeaky it came out so high. She cringed inwardly at the stutter and. ” My Dad squinted into the rising sunlight, took a drag on his cigarette, and growled. I just stood there, twirling my cigarette between my thumb and forefinger, smoking it, and wondering what my Dad was going to do to those motherfuckers.And just as if that wasn’t enough trouble, a gang of motorcycle riders came down the road, stopped, and put their kick stands down with their tail pipes facing the fucking “protesters.”A big smile crosses my Dad’s face. “They’re here, Guy,” my Dad says to.
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