She screamed again. “I said shut the fuck up!” I screeched at her. She began screaming even louder, and tears began to stream down her face. I gave her a good slap across the face, which left her lying rather still, obviously from shock and pain. I reached back and put my hand under her skirt while she tried to protest, but she wasn’t too strong after that slap. I slipped my finger under the waistband of her panties and she tried to pull her legs up and block my hand from going any further but I quickly reached under her ass and pulled them over to her ankles in one simple thrust. She began begging me to stop but by this stage the only thing that would stop me was shooting my load into that hot ass of hers. I gave her another good slap across the face and this time she looked very dazed and weak. I untied her arms and flipped her over before pinning her down again. She began squealing and weeping but became hysterical when she hear the familiar sound of a zipper being loosened. I. Deuce was the youngest child of the youngest daughter. The last car she ever bought was a 1965 Oldsmobile, that beast was a boat. It was long enough that Sugar claimed it took up 2 zip codes when parked. She threw the comment out as fact, no emotion behind it at all. The week before she died the odometer went over 75.000 miles. Only 2 people ever drove it any more, they were Deuce and her mechanic. At the end of their Saturday and Wednesday evenings he would quietly wait downstairs as she prepared for bed. When she was ready he would give her a kiss on her left cheek, straighten her blanket and walk out of the house to go home, promptly at 9. I suppose the strict routine was a comfort to the older woman in some way. They never talked about it and the routine never varied by much more than a minute at anytime. Sugar had been married early in her life, the week after she turned 18. He was a banker and much older than she. He died at his desk at 5 on a Friday evening. When he varied.
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