I could taste cum. I could taste ass. I could taste his sweat. I could smell his pubes as he started going deeper into my mouth. "Ya that's how come G...d made you my bitch boi. No gag reflex. Too bad, I like it when my bitches struggle." Every word he said was a dagger to me. 'My bitches'? How many times had he done this? When was it going to stop?... This went on for what felt like hours, even though I'm sure it was much less. My jaw started to ache, my throat felt sore and scratchy from his. It was called Baguley Brook, and I remembered games we used to play by it and in it, fishing for minnows, finding frog spawn, wading in Wellington boots or bare feet in the water. The clarity of the memory surprised me.We had a few drinks back at the hotel before going back to bed. We had ordinary, missionary position sex, as if we both tacitly agreed that a repeat of the intensity of the afternoon's activity was out of the question.Tuesday morning dawned wet with fine, light rain from a. More

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