Our tongues darted against each other. He broke the kiss and stared at me. "Sam?" I said. He said nothing, but guided me to the bed. He put me down on my back and started kissing me again, but this time his hand made its way from my hip to my breast, pinching my nipple just the right amount to make me moan. He then stopped to remove his shirt and trousers. He was left wearing only his boxer shorts. I could see he hard cock sticking through the thin material. I went to reach for it but he stopped me and pushed my hand away. "No. This is about you," he said. Without saying a word, he started sucking my right nipple and playing with my other nipple with his left hand. I began moaning as he then moved his hand down my side and slid it in between my legs and up to the warmth of my pussy. I gasped as his hand brushed my clit. He felt how wet I was and started sliding a finger inside me. He then added another, making me moan aloud. The excitement of fingering me was bringing him close. Her tongue tasted of rye whiskey and cloves, the flavor not unlike the woman. Rough but welcome. The waxy texture of her lipstick was smeared across my chin as we parted ways long enough for a sharp intake of air, before suckling at each other's tongues again. This girl wasn't the sort you'd expect to see on a magazine cover, with their plastic perfection that was cut, stitched, and inflated. No... hers was the charm of an old bordello whore. Clearly she'd been cut, but not by a surgeon. There was a jagged mark beneath her collarbone. There was a crescent shaped scar that I somehow knew was from a broken bottle. Bar room brawl or sadistic lover, the scar had a story all it's own, I was sure. I wasn't sure if it was better than the story that accompanied the bruises on her wrists. It looked as if she was just recovering from a nasty rope burn. There was another variety of burn on her shoulder-blade. As she'd slid out of her coat, baring her shoulders earlier, I'd noticed what looked.
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