Though that might have more to do with the fact I’d become somewhat of a reclusive, of sorts. It was basically how I spent my teenage years with onl... one exception. I reacted violently, ‘very violently,’ if anybody touched my bag. It was the bag I kept with that piece of red cloth of my sister’s dress in, they soon learned not to touch it. Other than that, I accepted my condition like an epileptic accepts their condition when they know nothing can be done to stop it. I was sixteen, when we. She crossed the room to the dresser and lifted the hairbrush in pussy-juiced fingers. The handle extended a good six inches from it and was a bit thicker than her index finger.It was only a substitute, she knew, and a poor substitute at that.But it was all she had.As she baked at it, one hand slithered back down between her legs. Her fingers moved lightly over her labia, teasing the flesh and maintaining the terrible level of her as yet unsatisfied arousal.Like someone in a dream, she walked to. More

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