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Roosevelt, the newly elected President promised us in the fall of 1932. All the country could do was sit and wait for better days. ~ When I reached the city, I passed a crowded, dirty alley. The noisy crowd had formed a circle around two men engaged in a bare knuckle fight. I walked towards the crowd to size up the competition. My dad and grandfather had been prize fighters. If a year’s harvest didn’t yield enough to cover the cost of staying in business, they made good money in the ring to cover the expenses. I had been trained in the art of fisticuffs by both of them, much to the disapproval of my mom and grandmother. I lost count of how many times my dad and grandfather caught shit for training me to fight, from mom and grandma at the dinner table. The memory brought a smile to my face. My mom’s words had stayed with me. Every time I told her I wanted to be heavy weight champion of the world, just like John L. Sullivan. And, every time, she would remind me that he had died. His hands moved around my torso methodically: he was giving me a soft massage. He massaged my thighs, slowly getting closer to my pussy, teasing me. I bucked my hips into his hand, causing his palm to push on my clit, it felt so good. “Ah, ah, ah,” he whispered into my ear, “Don’t be naughty, or I’ll have to completely restrain you.” His hands wandered down to my feet, and started to massage them. No way in hell was I going to let him have all the power. I moaned again as he lowered his lips to the inside of my thighs, his tongue licking my skin. I resisted bucking my hips again, not wanting to be fully restrained. Eventually, though, his mouth made it to my pussy, and he moved it between my slit, sliding it up and down. More moaning escaped my mouth, and I desperately wanted his cock inside me. His fingers rubbed my clit again, and my pussy dripped all over his sheets. He pushed two fingers inside my wet pussy, pounding them in and out, getting harder and harder. It felt great, but.
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