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My name is Michael, what’s yours?" He was very kind about it. He did not want to scare her off. He could tell she was thinking about running off, bu... she was rooted to the spot. Finally, she found her footing and went to walk away from him. He grabbed her arm just hard enough to keep her from going anywhere. She was slightly afraid, but made no effort to get away because she didn’t want him to hurt her. That should have been a warning signal to her before she ever got involved with him. Her. He’d tell us how beautiful we were and we’d believe him and hold onto the feeling for as long as we could, feeling beautiful and loved.That’s why we worried. It wasn’t all about the sex. It was that feeling. Of being beautiful. Of being loved.Blanket told us about the last time Daddy had taken him. It had out behind the tents. Daddy had him down on his knees, sucking his cock. His pubes had smelled like diesel. He’d held him down with one hand, simply using his mouth while he called him dick. She was forced to park her car on the median, along the road, about half a block over. From where we sat, enjoying the sun and canine companionship, we could hear the sounds of the football game. And as luck would have it, the home team lost. (High school for me was 30+ years ago and several thousand miles away, so I didn't care about the outcome of the game.) Once the game ended, the visitors spilled out, yelling taunts and laughing at the host school. And of course, stupidity ensued. Some. When you got here, they got worse, if anything.”“Wow,” he said. It was clear this information did not disturb him. She felt another wave of passion flow through her. But now she could think rationally about it.“Then you inadvertently told me to stop worrying about it. I was finally able to think clearly. That’s why we’re having this conversation.”“Can I ask questions?” he inquired.“No.”“Why not?”“Because I’m worried what kind of questions you’ll ask, and that I’ll tell you the truth.”“Do you.
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