You sigh and run a hand up and down my shoulder to the curve of my ass. “I like that,” I whisper. You laugh and concentrate on the curve of my ass... massaging circles with your fingertips. Your touch is gentle and soft at first, but soon turns to firm pressure, kneading the roundness. I cannot help but squirm. CRACK, your hand lands on my ass. I gasp in surprise! CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, three more blows land in the same spot. “OOOOOOOOO,” I moan and grind my pussy against your thigh. “No, no, no,”. She probably would have gotten pressured into marrying some tough guy from the neighborhood and wound up unhappy and abused. That didn't happen because of who Dad was. Nobody was sure where he was, but nobody was ever gonna mess with Mom until they were sure he was dead or in prison for the rest of his and their life. Dad was an Irish tough who ran with Whitey Bulger back in the day up in Boston. The only thing Mom or I knew was that he wasn't in Boston because the FBI made sure everyone from. More

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