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I broke my kiss and removed her t-shirt and my shirt. She started kissing on my bare chest and i was pressing her boobs again over her bra. I got rid of her bra and started sucking her breast. She started moaning:Then i got rid of her jeans and panty and my jeans and underwear and we wear nude. I was amazed by her body. She had clean shaved pussy and i just went crazy looking at her pussy.I made her lie on bed and started eating her pussy i was kissing sucking and biting her pussy. She just started going crazy and was saying this pussy in not being fucked in 4 years plz don’t do it. I just kept on doing it and she started moaning loudlyAaaahhhhhhAaaahhhhhhhShe was saying don’t do this and I was just going crazy with her pussy.She was moaning and suddenly she got her orgasm I drank all her juices.Now it was my turn i went on bed and started kissing her again. And pressing her boobs. And she hold my hard dick in her hand. I broke the kiss and asked her to suck my dick. She started. "I like you, and I know thatshe will, as well." Yes; but supposing she doesn't," she persisted. "I've heard of motherslike that, who don't want to lose their sons. Suppose she thinks I amtrying to take you away from her."That gave me cause for thought, because it was something that I hadnever even considered. I stood up, and began to pace restlessly up anddown the room, as I mulled it over. Dorothy held on to the advantage:"And there's another thing; I've never heard you mention your Father?What about him? What does he have to say about it?"I stopped my pacing, and had to admit:"Well, we don't mention him. Mother won't talk about him. He left her -walked out on her; about six months after they were married, and beforeI was born. So you see, I never knew him at all. Mother was always mostevasive, and she became extremely cross if I ever tried to ask abouthim. She used to cry a lot, at night; and nowadays she just seems to bebitter about all men in general. I know she has a poor.
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I excused myself and went up to my room. Inside, I sat down on my bed and tried to make sense and order of the things I'd learned, and of the three women most responsible for my being alive, and for the twelve years I'd spent at St. Cecelia's. The woman, Anne Coulter, that I'd seen slumped over in a drunken stupor, had thrown me away like some unwanted garbage. Her mother seemed even more callous. And yet, and this was the part I was having trouble accepting, they were both a part of me. The blood that ran through my veins was, in large part, theirs. I hated them both, but I wanted and needed to hear from them, everything they could tell me about my birth, and those lost first years of mine. The hate part had been festering from my first awareness in the orphanage. Somehow, I had always known that I had been thrown away. I had felt like I'd been discarded. It was one thing to feel like that, and quite another to find out it was true.I didn't make it down for dinner. The phone rang.

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