Each time I slam home I give my hips a screw, a flick, hitting your cervix from different angles. Your regular panting breaths become ragged, breaking...into gasps. “Oh fuck! Oh yessss! I’m gonna come! I’m gonna come! I’m cominggggg!” you shriek. I feel your snatch clamping down on me, milking me as you climax. The lake of spunk in my balls turns to liquid fire, a burning focus of desire that expands, rising up my stem. My pumping shaft swells in the tight grip of your convulsing quim and I give. I am not sure whether it is Quaker or Lutheran, Tory or Patriot, but it was a fine and hospitable crossroads in September of 1777. The jovial landlord at the inn assured me that Philadelphia was still some twenty-five miles to the east and that Lancaster and York was thirty or forty miles to the west."If you have business with the Congress," he said ignoring the state of my beard and clothes as well as my bare feet and the raw wounds on my wrists, "I hear tell they be moveable and might light. More

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