After a moment or two he got into a quick constant rhythm and he was proud as fuck at himself for being able to hold on for as long as he was. "Oh, Ma...ia! You like that?" Yes, baby," she struggled to say. " I like it." Yeah, that's right mama," he said, slapping her ass. "You like it. You fucking like it. You're my whore." I'm your whore," she said, trying to keep her voice steady and low, but failing miserably. The fact that she was in so much pain that she couldn't talk without showing it. Fergusson whose final act of discourtesy seemed to be dying five years ago. Betty caught the reflection of her half-nakedness in the mirror and thought it would be an advantage to a dressmaker not to have a man wandering about. She felt odd enough with Mrs. Fergusson's plump hands fluttering like small birds over her firmly curving abdomen and waist. The woman slid the strapless gown over her head and she shivered as the plump widow abruptly undid her bra before Betty could lift the front of. More

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