.. don't want to be any trouble Miss Becci," he stuttered, not removing his eyes from my body. "It's no trouble at all," David said. "Is it Sis?" "No,...of course not Mr Johnson," I replied. "Just some milk then please, Miss Becci," Mr Johnson replied. I smiled at him calling me Miss Becci. It reminded me of a love story that Barbara Cartland would write, where the hero was always tall, dark and handsome and the heroine was always a poor girl who had suffered in life from birth until the hero of. She missed his BIG black cock, and the way he used it on her. In stark contrast, her husband had never been good in bed. She'd overlooked that; made excuses---he worked hard, he was tired, etc. but the fact had always remained: her husband was simply preoccupied with himself more than with her, or their daughter. In the last four years he had lost his ability to get, or hold on to, an erection; and this had precipitated quite a number of bitter evening yelling matches---he blaming her, and she. More

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