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sample bestiality art "bestialityart" story: "
It was only at ten to three that she began worrying about what he
was expecting from her.
But when the time approached, Ursula knew she couldn't duck. He'd
easily discover her true identity and then she would really be scorned
as a little kid and worse -- what Roxanne had called "a tease."
Well, she told herself, she'd wanted to learn the ways of the older
and, presumably, wiser. and she scurried out the back door at the
appointed hour.
He was there in the Fire-Engine Red Mustang Convertible.
Ursula took a deep breath, meaning to calm herself, instead only
reminding Jerry of the attributes that had first attracted him -- those
and the legend that redheads were really hot to trot -- and hurried to
the waiting car. And Jerry, true to form, popped the clutch, laid a
patch and zoomed her off toward the place where all the guys went to Do
It: on Gardner Avenue, where the City of New York parked the street-
sweeping machines.
CHAPTER THREE
She was doing pretty good, she thought. She'd let him soul-kiss her
and grope her tits through her shirt and bra, then through her bra
only,when he'd finally undone enough of the shirt buttons. But she
wasn't sure she wanted him to keep running his hand up her quivering
thigh and she really doubted she wanted him to get the cup completely
off one ripe little tit and she was sure that she didn't want her hand
put on the rather sizable Thing that was straining beneath the crotch
material of his bell-bottoms. This was not what she had in mind.
But he kept telling her how pretty and sexy she was and he kept
licking the side of her neck and then she found herself moaning and
pushing herself at him and then he had his lips on her nipple.
Ursula felt the shuddering contractions within and hoped he
wouldn't be able to smell her scent (above the lovely aromas of the soap
factory on the other side of the Newtown Creek or the nearby fragrance
of the detrius drying on the brushes of the street-sweeping machines'
brushes) and know how excited she was.
It didn't matter, of course. The give-away was the lack of resolve
when she tried to close her thighs to block his fingers' path to her
Tricot-adorned cunny. Once he managed to wedge one finger against the
crevice so tightly contained in her ever-wetter panties, he began to rub
furiously and kept it up. Simple warmth -- from the friction of his
moving knuckles -- would have been her undoing, but he also applied
pressure and soon, she found herself sighing and arching up to help him
remove her panties.
When he got the tip of one finger on her Special Spot, she was a
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