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They laughed at some story he was relating as he inched higher up her thigh watching his own hand as it disappeared beneath the deep purple of her dress. She sat her wine aside and looked at him. The time for talking had come to an end as her blood was pumping and her pussy was already soaking the thin thong she had worn. He turned her so that her legs were on either side of him and he ran both hands up her thighs to the beautiful brown triangle of hair that covered her to find her wet beneath his fingers. The moan of his name had his cock pumping in his jeans. He looked at her over her voluptuous breasts and saw the passion on her face as he slipped his finger inside of her teasing her clit. James' head dipped down to take a taste and found it was ambrosia to his tongue. The primal male in him wanted her hard and fast. Kat moaned again, "Please, James, oh, please. Don't stop." He lurched over her and pulled the V neck of her purple wrap dress down and to let her breasts spill into. Dad kept getting into fights—usually verbal--with most other men, but Paul worked with Dad, lived right around the block from us, and Paul was bigger, so those three reasons combined more often than not kept Dad in line when Paul was around. That didn’t mean that I didn’t still get slapped, hit, kicked, and yelled at, but it didn’t go on for hours if Paul was there. “Autumn!” Dad would yell when he and Paul would get home from work, “get your ass down here and bring us a beer!” I was the afternoon waitress in our living room since the age of five. Mom would be at work, or making dinner in the kitchen, and I would rush to the refrigerator to grab two cans of beer for them. The time I tripped while hurrying over to them, dropping and shaking up the beers, was the first time I remember Paul seeing me get hit. “Get your stupid ass up, and get over here!” Dad yelled. I scrambled to pick up the rolling cans and came over to him on the couch where he was sitting. He slapped me.
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