He lay some six miles north of Fort Stevens, but he could clearly hear echoes of the guns' booming reports and even feel the ground beneath him shake.He looked around his horse-stall prison and saw nothing but piles of straw and worn, pine boards. "Water," sounded in his parched throat, but he was not sure whether or not he said the word aloud. The farm was very quiet, even the chickens seemed to be resting from the heat. His head ached. He could not see anything clearly. He tried to remember how he got to this place, in this stall, on this farm.He wondered what day it was. His mouth tasted awful, vile and sour, and his thirst pushed all else from his pained head. He tried to spit and failed. He levered himself to his knees and attempted to stand, surprised to find that his hands and feet were tied. With a groan, he passed out again, face down in the fragrant hay.Despite the heat, Wainder was not sweating. His scratched face was pale and dry. The lump on the side of his head had. After a while our mouths began to move more widely over each other’s bodies, tracing lust across skin in our invisible ink, and I wriggled out from beneath her to rise up on my knees and move my throbbing mouth-slicked cock towards her proffered pussy from behind. My eyes closed, my dick just naturally found its gap, and I pushed slowly, deeply into that sheath. She was wailing now, all pussy, all voice, unconscious of what the neighbors ( sexy themselves ) were hearing. Even I, normally quieter, shouted out for them, for my wife, for pure pleasure. We fucked and fucked, her ass bucking back urgently into my hips. I wet my thumb and pressed it against the pert circle of her anus, rhythmically at first, and then the thumb pressed in. She was so sunk down in the fuck, her cheek pressed against the rug, that she didn’t even seem to feel this new entry. Before long my entire thumb was moving slickly inside her, feeling the simultaneous press of my cock through thin, elastic walls. Her.
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