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"No, but I want you to eat my pussy." She pulled her dress up above her waist and spread her legs. "Now pull off my panties," demanded Becky.Ann did a... Becky ordered then, with Becky's legs spread wide and her feet propped up on the arms of the chair, she buried her face into the younger woman's pussy.The soft, black hair covering Becky's cunt tickled Ann's nose as she licked the sweet-smelling pussy. Her tongue, playing and flickering on her sensitive cunt, drove Becky wild. The young manager. Rarely did any of them miss an eleven o’clock rendezvous, shift change and obstinate passengers notwithstanding. A little thing like a blizzard wouldn’t stop them on the last night. Their loyalty was surpassed only by the voracious desire to feed themselves and to gossip.Born in southern Pakistan, the snowplow driver made a career out of appearing American. He wanted no one to mistake him for a terrorist sympathizer, Bin-Laden operative or anti-American troublemaker. He even tried to think in. Fritz nodded back. His co-conspirator had loaded The Sack.Fritz was not, in fact, the nice boy Mrs. Kringle thought he was. He was decidedly naughty, with a deep interest in naughtiness despite his father's crusade against it, or perhaps because of it. Due to the magically long-lived nature of his parents, his adolescence had lasted nearly a century and the perpetual pubescence had warped him. The only reason he had not been as naughty as he might have been was that he lived up on a snowy. A black hurricane barreled past, blowing my lantern out and my notepad clear across the country I’m sure. Then silence. All was still. Nothing, not a single breath of air, seemed to move. A gust of wind. There! On my cheek. Surrounding me, spinning. A horse's snort on my neck: hot. Hotter than bonfire on Christmas eve, it blew down my neck; the wind of its nostrils paralyzing as is slowly fell down my back. I couldn’t move, stranded there on my log. The forest to hide, yet no place concealed..
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