sexstories.com


Introduction:

A young man enjoys sex with 31 different women in 31 days before falling into the deep, dark, gay underworld.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


My eight hour shift at the warehouse was followed by a good workout at the gym. It was time to pick up some chow at the local Food Mart. The second ‘D’ on my scorecard is about to happen. She is also the second married woman, as I find out. Darlene is married, but separated. Cindy the librarian is married, and about to be separated.

I expect.

Thanks to my big cock and her hungry, insatiable ass.

Back to the second ‘D’. She has to be between forty and forty-five, and she works as a cashier at this Food Mart. Scary. The age factor might come in to play and kill this before it starts. I noticed Darlene about two years ago, stocking impulse junk at the checkout. As I approached from behind, I was admiring her tight little ass and thin legs. All squeezed into studded pocket jeans. MK & A branded jeans, I recall. She wore long, bleach blonde hair, my usual color choice. When she turned around, I caught my breath. Darlene wasn’t unattractive. However, I was expecting an eighteen year old face to go with the little body.

What a shocker.

I made small talk with her, flirty small talk, whenever I passed through her checkout. She seemed nice, and was not unattractive, but before this all started, I was never interested in old bags. Now I might be. Because of the age parameters I was establishing. Sweet Taylor at the bottom. Cindy at the top. Sixteen to thirty-two. A sixteen year span of fucking, in only sixteen days.

Wasn’t it nice how the numbers were lining up for me?

Darlene was always interested in me. I suspect she was interested in every young stud that swaggered through her checkout. She was the super cougar. Today, she seemed more interested than usual. The cougar must have picked my scent. I smelled as raunchy as a buck in heat, rutting, spreading my spoor through the entire forest. I showered and soaped at the gym, but my pores were probably oozing the sex scent. This big buck was all heated up.

Darlene has the forty-five year old face, tired and worn, but her workplace allows jeans and a blue denim apron. This attire makes her look about thirty-five. Okay, maybe not. Anyway, today her long, dead bleached hair is swept up in a ponytail. A metallic banana clip holds the mop in place. The jeans advertise tight legs and a round little ass. Under the company supplied smock there would be no tits, due to the starvation diet. For sure it was tough being an aging woman who wanted to fuck. Eat to maintain your tits, then watch your triceps, ass and thighs blow up. Starve to maintain your ass, and say goodbye to your tits and face. What a conundrum.

Exercise?

No time, no desire, no energy. Real life is too big of an energy drain.

Plastic surgery, Botox and liposuction?

Too scary and too expensive for most small town women. Besides, going the ‘Housewives’ way accomplishes nothing. Those injected women are so fucking hideous.

I lingered at the checkout this day. I was intrigued. I plain out asked how old she was. Surprising things were flowing out of my mouth these days. Beautiful things were flowing in, as well. My filter was about gone. Sixteen in sixteen days. Enough said.

Forty-six and proud of it, she boasted.

Good for you, I responded.

Forty-six would expand my range from sixteen, skipping past thirty-two, on up to senior level. Fourteen years added to the range with one fuck. A new and improved thirty year age span.

My interest in the cougar was growing. Keep her talking.

Darlene lived in her own place with her two teenage kids. A boy nineteen, and a girl, sixteen. The old man was a long distance trucker, and was out of the picture for five years now.

The cougar babbled on about her kids.

The boy, Trevor, and the girl, Taylor.

I could have shit my pants!

Taylor?

Sixteen?

Im-fucking-possible!

What was going on here?

Were the Gods of Fuck shining their spotlight down on me?

Guiding me?

I asked if her kids worked anywhere. You know, the idle chit chat thing. Showing interest in her kids. Always good for the ladies to hear this load of crap.
Oh yes, proud mom says, Trevor works here, in fact, there he is at the back, stocking shelves. I look. A huge kid, six foot six, two fifty at least. Tall, chubby, but strong. Would be a beast in about four more years. Must be on the football team. Christ, looking at tiny mom and huge son, the old man must be a giant.

Taylor worked at?

She didn’t have to say it. I picked up the resemblance between mother and daughter. Confirming my earlier shock.

Oh my!

Here we go.

Would you like to get together later, for a coffee or something, Mrs. Cougar?

The hungry look of an aging, desperate woman spread across her face.

How about the something, she responded.

She wasn’t a coffee drinker. No sir. But she was a drinker. I got it. An alcohol drinker. She tapped her painted claws on the counter top. There was no one in line behind me. Darlene’s claws were bright red, and looked as if they might have ripped into hot flesh. My mind was racing. I was a teenage school boy once again, gawking and fumbling in front of the principal. A bad boy. I think I was actually blushing, and I think Darlene took this as some sort of excited complement. This young stud was very interested in her, an older woman.

My cock began to stir in my pants. The veteran cougar was smiling, eyes glancing from my crotch to my face and back. Little did she know my blushing and my erection were not necessarily for her. No they weren’t. I was already thinking of the bigger picture, me doing the daughter, then me doing the mother. Back to back. Quite possibly, both of them showing up on Facebook. Or in the town’s rumor mill. Or Twittering. Or on YouTube.

What if she wanted to snap a picture of ‘us’, when we were done?

Holy, fuck me Batman!

Could this get any easier? Or any crazier?

What the hell would be happening by day thirty?

I gave my address to this wanton, married but separated, mother of two. I asked if pizza and beer was okay. It was. I made a note to self to make sure I had plenty of space on the video recorder. This night would go down in infamy. I really needed to get into the city to buy better equipment. I couldn’t seem to find the time. You know, too busy working and eating and sleeping and showering and fucking and eating pussy and eating ass. Ordinary life stuff.

Ten after six, the doorbell rings. The pizza guy is here.
Five minutes later, the doorbell rings. The cougar is here.

I can tell the cougar has been pre-drinking. Whiskey I smell.

Hard core drinker, I think.

She means business, I conclude.

The cougar looks good for a senior. She looks to be wearing her daughter’s pants. Black jeans. Skin tight, adorned in tiny metallic studs. Down the legs. Outlining the pockets. Both sides of the zipper. Blue booties. With heels. Black baggy tee shirt. Leather jacket with studs. Reminds me of the get-up the rock and roller was wearing. Julie’s guy.

Darlene’s hair is out and flowing. Colored nearly to death in white. Tons of makeup presented a face resembling her daughter’s, once upon a time. If I drank four beers and dimmed the lights, she might once again return to the magic age of sixteen. Okay, make it eight beers. With the lights off. Better make it ten beers.

The pizza is on the living room table. Lots of beer on the living room table. Idle, awkward, before intercourse chit chat. I have zero in common with the cougar. She has zero in common with me. Twenty-six and forty-six is too far a bridge to cross. We throttle back on the conversation and crank up the eating and drinking. We are eating fast and drinking faster. Two beers each, gone. Then three. The pizza is nearly gone. The pizza is gone. A large pizza, too. We both need energy for the business ahead.

I notice my appetite is increasing as the month slides by. Working full time and fucking full time requires plenty of carbs and fuel.

Four beers were gone. Apiece. Darkness was falling outside, it was dimmer in the room, and I was wearing a light pair of beer goggles. The cougar moved ahead of me, cracking beer number five, she was off duty tomorrow.

She was a small lady, and the beer was knocking her around. I had no idea how much whiskey she consumed on the drive over. I bet some of these veteran boozers could easily drink me under the table.
I sure as hell didn’t want to be out on booze with an old cunt in my place. Christ, she might start nesting while I slept it off. Cooking breakfast and rearranging my furniture.

No sir.

It was time for action.

Wham, bam, get the fuck out, ma’am.



CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


She slid closer on the couch, swooning, blinking eyes, the exaggerations betraying her state of inebriation.

This human mating dance was stupid, wasn’t it?

It didn’t take long for the touching to start. The roaming hand. The other hand holding the beer bottle. Those sharp red claws were out, running over my chest and shoulders. In came the cougar mouth and the cougar tongue, and the yellow teeth, using skills honed a quarter century ago.

Darlene climbed onto my lap. Tonguing at my mouth. My ears. I looked at my watch. This was going swimmingly. It was only seven twenty. I downed four beers in sixty-five minutes and the beer goggles were getting thicker. The cougar in front of me was getting younger. She was down to forty. I almost smiled. Then remembered we were necking and stuff. I grabbed her ass to make her feel like a woman. Right, Shania?

My hands found a plethora of metal studs. They felt good. Pleasing to the touch. I ran my hands from the fabric to the metal studs. The pants were tight, the ass felt hard and sweet. I felt a stir in my balls. The cougar’s age dropped to thirty-five.

The cougar loves the man hands on her ass. She wiggles and moans in my lap.

How long has it been honey? 1984?

I run one hand down the front of her crotch. Over the metal studs advertising her zipper. I was thinking of Taylor in these pants. The sweet honey pot, hidden behind the metallic stud guard. My brave tongue, battling, breaching the metal gates to rescue her near virgin snatch. I was getting horny.

I began to kiss and tongue back against the cougar. One hand cupping her ass, one hand open, plastered over the metal studding on her zipper. More moaning from the cougar. She pulls back from my mouth. She is heaving for breath, winded already. I don’t think she has enjoyed man action for a long, long time. She might implode on me. Or, I might kill her, if I unleash the full power of the beast.

She guzzles from her bottle. While grinding against my palm. My super talented nose picks up the first whiff. Pussy. Aged pussy.

It has started.

Darlene throws her head back, white hair wild and getting tangled. The quickie straightening job she did after work is not holding. Cheap Wal-Mart flat iron. Cheap no-name hair spray. Oh well, she looks kind of wild, and sort of hot, I have to admit, with her hair all out. Down to age thirty-two, close to Cindy the librarian. Now I was getting goofy. Cindy was way hotter. Push the fucking cougar’s age back up where it belongs.

Darlene’s fifth beer is empty. She reaches back, sets it on the coffee table. The bottle teeters and falls over. Rolls across the table. Stops up against a standing bottle. My fingers move over her pussy, pressing and probing. The cougar rights herself and has come back with a sixth beer. She twists the cap off. Slugs back half the bottle in one gulp. This girl can sure drink. She is sweating. Gasping for air. The gasping is not poor fitness, it is extreme horniness.

She looks at me. Her eyes are smoky. Cindy’s eyes were smoky. Perhaps older chicks get the smoky eye thing when they are all horned up. No problem. I rather enjoy the smoky eye thing. Smoky is good.

“God,” she says. “I am so fucking horny.”

There. My suspicion is confirmed, in words.

Darlene rocks and wiggles on my fingers. My other hand is fascinated, working over her studded ass.
“Two years,” she moans. “Two years since…”

Since what? I think to tease. Since you had cock? But I don’t. Because I am into the feel of the metal studs.
Who would have thought?

She takes another slug of beer, offers me the rest. I don’t want to move either of my hands. The hand on her ass is a given, the studs and the tight material. My fingers on her pussy are moist; the material is bleeding pussy juice. Her smell is filling my nostrils, my balls, and yes, I have confirmed the age old question of all the boys.

Do a mother and daughter smell alike?

Very few males in the history of our planet have done both the mother and the daughter. Of course, I would be one of them, very soon.

I feel the studs continue on past the spot where her pussy and ass converge. I stretch my fingers. The studs continue up the back. As does more of the zipper. Splitting her ass checks. My ass hand follows. Indeed, the studs carry on up to her belt loop. All of my fingers are working. The studs and the zipper roll from stem to stern.

Darlene has diabolically moved one of her hands down to my crotch. The sharp red nails are scratching, clawing over my bulge. Her hand is moving frenetically. I think it is the biggest bulge she has ever felt. Hell, I know it is. She tips the beer to my lips. Pours the last quarter of the bottle in. Drops the empty on the couch. Attacks my mouth with new vigor. Sucking at the beer before it slides down my throat.

What a tiger! I mean cougar. She has some strength in her.

“Two years,” she moans again.

Yeah, got you the first time. I will soon be taking care of your two year cock drought.

The moan was hoarser, smokier. Hornier. As was I. Because her bare claws were on my bare cock. When did she pull my zipper down and tug it out? Sneaky bitch. She has a few tricks of her own.

“Two years…since…I was pussy fucked.”

I spit my beer into her face.

What?

“I want this cock. Now. In my pussy.”

What was she saying? Pussy fucked? Not in two years?

Had she not fucked at all?

Damn straight she had!

The wily old cunt.

She was ass fucking only, for the past two years. I got it.

Why did she do it that way, exclusively?

What the fuck was wrong with these women?

Good question.

Check with the librarian.

Women.

They were all fucked up.

Fucked up in the head.

Older women, more so.

Both of her hands were wrapped around my cock. Pumping it nice and slow. The red claws looked dangerous. Ready to tear into my shaft at the slightest provocation. I best get my cock to safety. Safety would be in her two year, unfucked pussy.

I found the front zipper. Tugged it down. It was tight going. Tugged it some more. Down to her pussy. Immediately, her smell wafted out. Taylor indeed. Plus some fermentation. Not unpleasant at all.

There were no panties under these magical jeans. I reached around her ass and found the zipper clasp. Began tugging it up towards her hips. Up some more. Finally, the zipper broke through. The pants were separated. Half covering one leg and ass cheek, half covering the other.

This was awesome. With no panties, I was going to fuck her with her pants on, and her boots on.

Whose bed have your boots been under?

Nobody’s.

She is still wearing them.

I needed to get her to the boudoir. Better camera in there. I stood up, letting her slide down off me. She was wobbly. She wouldn’t let go of my cock. It was her new talisman. We wobbled into the bedroom. She was drunk. I was tipsy. I checked my watch. It wasn’t yet eight o’ clock. I sat her down at the foot of the bed. I knew exactly where the camera was set up. I grabbed a great handful of white hair, and guided her painted mouth to my cock. Keeping both hands on the shaft, she sucked the knob into her drunken mouth. Yeah baby, smile for the camera.

I pulled her mouth over my cock, letting her take about half of it. Held her there for the money shot. Pumped her a few times. Let her salivate and slobber over the beast. The hottest, youngest, biggest cock of her entire career. I fed her another couple of inches, then pulled out, leaving her gagging and wanting for more. I pushed her back on the bed. It was time.

She scampered backwards, a crab spreading her studded, jeaned legs for me. She was already moaning. So damn horny. The thighs quivering. I looked down at the sad old cunt. Hair a mess. Makeup plastered all across her face. A lot of makeup. More than super tits Traci.

When you get old, the creases and crevices have to be filled in, the age spots have to be masked, and you might as well paint some fake features on for good measure.

I climbed on the bed. Caressed the boots. She moaned some more. Caressed the calves. More moaning. Caressed the thighs. Underneath the thighs. Worked up towards the tight little ass. My pole was standing straight out. Dripping with beer and saliva. Darlene opened her eyes. Saw the pole coming for her. Moaned some more. I thought about Taylor. Lying naked on my bed. This bed. Baby thighs barely moving. The tiniest of moans as I ate from her sweet young sugar pot. The Pepsi pussy.

Should I or shouldn’t I?

Would mom and daughter ever find cause to discuss the best sex of their lives?

If they did, would my name pop up, twice?

To both of their astonishment?

Oh, to be a fly on the wall during such a conversation.

The answer was, I should.

I dropped down on to the bed. Studded jean ass firmly in my two hands. My thick cock crushed under my belly. I would have to be careful. The cougar clawed at my hair, trying to pull me up and into her cunt. She was desperate. I easily shook her off, then dropped my head into her snatch. My tongue began to dance, and probe and lick. Her smell was strong. Her taste was strong. Damn, she did taste like her daughter. Or my mind was retarded. Not sure as this moment. Where Taylor tasted of sweet caffeine and sugar, cougar mom tasted of caffeine and coffee. Stronger, and more powerful. With age, I suppose. I licked and moved to sucking. The cougar was sopping wet and thrashing in no time. I was good.

I was thinking about the cougar and her two year exclusive ass fucking streak. Since the librarian, I was becoming an aficionado of the ass.

Who knew the ladies needed ass action?

Was it because they pussy fucked their boyfriends and husbands all their lives?

Pussy fucking was the proper and accepted way of fucking. Of reproducing the species. En-grained in us all, as the one and only way to fuck. The correct way to fuck.

Now it was time for something new? Something dangerous? Something wrong?

Married or single, the ass highway was the new way to go?

The ass highway was what boyfriend or hubby would never do for you?

Or, you didn’t want them to do it for you. You were keeping the ass business all to yourself. Your own private, little secret.

I thought it was only a fag thing.

Apparently not.

The learning curve was still ramping up for yours truly.

I got my tongue good and wet, then slipped down to the ass. Pushed my tongue in. Immediately the cougar began to thrust. I tasted the musk and the heat. The flood from the pussy nearly drowned me. She wailed and pumped, trying to slam her ass against my mouth. I lifted myself up, slid forward and pushed her legs apart. Reached under, pulled her ass to the head of my cock. Pressed my bell against the forbidden spot. I leaned in, my bell punching deep. I slid easily.

Christ. What was she taking for the last two years?

Dark meat only?

I slid all the way in.

Slap! Our groins collided.

I looked down. My cock was completely buried in her ass.

Wow, the difference between a teenybopper and a cougar, right there.

One shot, full penetration, no problem.

I pulled out, pressed my bell against her drenched pussy, and pushed. This time, nothing. I pressed harder. Nothing yet. This was weird. The cougar was panting. As if I was teasing her with a bone. Okay. I was. A giant bone. I gave it some serious thrust. In it went. The cougar howled. Nice. I felt her pussy clamp down. My cock was in a vice. Little Taylor was this tight, and this hot. I felt my cock begin to burn. I slowly pulled back. The cougar clamped harder, she did not want me to leave. I did anyway, pulling out, jamming back into her ass. Her ass immediately swallowed me up.

Jesus. This was crazy.

I pulled out. Went for the pussy. Pressing in. Tight, tight, tight. I plowed in. Not as concerned about her well-being as I was with her daughter. No. Because when you were forty-six and chasing strange, hung young men, you best be prepared for anything. Including, the double, double.

Mother, daughter. Ass, pussy.

I leaned further into Darlene. Pinning her completely on the bed. I pulled out of her pussy. She tried to flail her legs. To no avail. I slammed into her ass. I heard her grunt, big time. I nearly knocked the wind out of her. Pulled out on the back stroke, guided the laser missile over the pussy hole, slammed her home. I felt the juice fly out. She was gasping for air, moaning, barking, begging to be fucked, and calling for the almighty. All at the same time.

I was already out and lining up her ass. I checked my watch. Marked myself. Began the rhythm. In ass. Out ass. In pussy. Out pussy. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. At the ten minute mark I stopped. Slid off the cougar. Dropped her legs onto the bed. I was sweating profusely. The fast four beers were running through me. I peeled off my shirt and tee. My briefs were strangling my balls. Jeans and briefs came off. I stood looking down at the fully dressed cougar. This was going to make an awesome video.

I saw the massive wet spot on the comforter. Underneath her ass and pussy. The exact same spot where her daughter wetted last night. Less than twenty-four hours ago. I had not yet washed the blanket.

Speaking of awesome, how awesome was this little factoid?

I left the blanket for a reason.

When I woke up this morning for work, it smelled, kind of good. Sex and sweetness and beauty. I wasn’t going to wash the blanket or sheets until this was over. Or until Taylor’s smell drifted out of them. The Taylor spot was buried with a new smell now. The smell of mommy. Mommy the cougar.

The cougar was jacketed and shirted, which was fine. While her ass and legs were tight, I knew it was something to do with the sprayed on jeans. I didn’t need the jacket and shirt off be-cause the flapjack chest would not appeal to me. Taylor’s washboard chest was fine. I did not want to see it on a forty-six year old. I did want to see what kind of a sloppy fuck pig this lady truly was.

I mounted over her, sliding up near her face. She sensed me coming through her moaning, verbal swoon. My cock head hit her mouth at the same time she opened it. The slimy knob pushed in, over her tongue, back to her throat. There you go, baby, suck your own ass, suck your own pussy, suck my precum. Suck it up, buttercup. Enjoy the taste and smell of your own two dirty holes. If they were good enough for me to eat, they are good enough for you to eat.

She did. Holy fuck. A horny old cunt is a relaxed old cunt. She was a pro. She spread her jaw, gagged and took the bell deep into her throat.

A bad angle, flat on her back, still able to deep throat the monster.

Impressive, or what?

I watched in awe as my cock slid into her gullet.

Bulging her throat with size distortion. My entire meat was past her lips. I humped her face, my thick balls slapping against her bottom lip and chin. Her face began to turn red. She squirmed underneath me. Her face began to turn purple. Good job, granny. I pulled out, the cougar lifted her head and wretched. Dry wretched, thank goodness.

Her reward was coming.

I slid back down, hoisted her legs. Stopped. Changed my mind. Flipped her over on the bed. Positioned her to face my hidden camera. Slapped her thighs apart, mounted her from behind. The pussy hole. The tight, hot pussy hole. Began to grind her. Then push her. Then pound her. I mean, pound her. The white hair was flying. She moved half a foot across the bed on every single impact. I pulled her back by the hips, impaling her, slamming her hard.

The cougar was growling and snarling. I stopped counting the number of times she vocalized her impending orgasm, then the fact she was orgasming, then the news another orgasm was coming, then the orgasm was here, then she couldn’t take another orgasm, then please stop, then no, she was orgasming again, and again, and she couldn’t take another one, my god, stop it, stop it, but here it comes again. Oh god, and so on and so forth. Yikes.

By this time, I had let go of her hips. I was yanking her back onto my cock with her white mane of dead, wild hair. The hair was brittle in my hands, breaking off in thin strands as I tugged her entire body through her skull.

This would hold her face to the camera, which should make for dynamite footage, and phenomenal blackmail, should I need it. Just kidding. Dynamite footage, for sure. I gave the old bag credit. At age forty-six, her pussy was super-hot and super tight. The ass only business of the last two years worked.
I had a new vision. A handful of her white hair. A handful of Taylor’s thick, beautiful hair. On the bed. Here. Sharing. Together. Both of their asses up, ready for show, ready for me to go. Side by side. My cock going in one, pulling out, going in the other. Pull out. Repeat. Into infinity. Oh my. Too much. The twitch began to run. From my balls to the tip of my embedded knob.

I wrenched the cougar’s head back, nearly snapping her neck. Of course, she was barking about coming again.

My turn, bitch.

I came, slamming her pussy as hard as I could. Giving the old bag the fuck of her lifetime. I shot steady and long. I grunted and gasped. She grunted and growled. We both collapsed, gasping for clear air. Talk about fun. Even after coming, she was too tight for me to pull out.

Hey, like mother, like daughter.

The counter ticked over to seventeen.

Check.

I mentally tallied my scorecard.

Hole sixteen was Taylor.

Hole seventeen was Taylor’s mom.

Officially, the scorecard would read as follows.

Hole seventeen.

Darlene.

Six and nine.

Yes, there was something about the super tight hole counting for the good. As well, the studded jacket, the studded jeans, the studded jeans staying on the body, the boots, and the boots staying on.

I was finally able to pull out. The cougar collapsed on my bed, face down. Ass up. Moaning. Twitching. Near dead to the world. She would be walking as funny as her daughter for the next week. She would recover much quicker. Being a veteran and all.

Wouldn’t it be fun to be in the kitchen tomorrow morning?

Preparing coffee and toast?

Mother and daughter, both fucked out, both walking as if they had ridden mechanical bulls.

Motherfucker!

Yes, I was.

Twice over in fact.

Two mothers. Cindy and Darlene. The mothers were proving to be pretty damn capable. The mothers were proving they were once soldiers. In Darlene’s case, she never lost it. Cindy on the other hand, I don’t think Cindy was properly fucked in her life, until me. I was doing a lot of good for many people.

I was.

On this journey to the fuck hall of fame.

[to be continued...................]

Visit RONAN JACKSON JEFFERSON on Facebook.

See "TRAILER FOR THIRTY-ONE DAYS" on YouTube.

See the nine, five star reviews at BARNES & NOBLE.COM

See
3 comments

Anonymous readerReport

2014-07-14 21:13:58
Twisted? Sick? Damaged? Or perfectly normal? Dare to wade into the tsunami of raw eroticism and engage in the struggles and the triumphs of super stud Derek Helton. His transformation is magnificent as he morphs from who he thought he was into what he must become in order to survive the greatest challenge of his young life. This is a story of a predator, a hunter, a great lover. This story is raw, open and wounded. You will struggle intimately with every situation the book presents. When you are finished, you will shake your head, wonder what on earth you just read, and then ask for more. Be warned. This book is not for the righteous or the sensitive or the weak at heart. THIRTY-ONE DAYS is dangerous, inflammatory and thrilling!

Anonymous readerReport

2014-05-17 15:43:20
This story has nine 5 star ratings on BARNES & NOBLE.COM

Two major reviews for the book are coming in the month of June.

Spoiler alert. This thing goes to very strange places.....................

Anonymous readerReport

2014-05-16 20:05:09
first the daughter, now the mother? What a lucky bastard!

SUBMIT A COMMENT
You are not logged in.
Characters count: