The Quixotic Tug (Post-Script, Part VI-A)

Even as she surrendered to baser, corrupted instincts, there was still the tendrils of an inner war. But it wasn't a war between the hood and the 'proper life' anymore. It was simply a war between a crack ho, and a slightly more upscale coke slut. And it wasn't clear the victor at this point.

"Mmm, Jack ... motherfucka, you eat that pussy so fuckin' well," Elizabeth said. The homeless man made his way to her bed more often than not of late. They liked the same ****, drink and smoke, debased as Moses had made her. She smoked the Black and Mild, exhaling the smoke out as she tensed up, her thighs clenching around Jack's weathered face. "Ohhhh motherfucka!" she shouted as she came.

She'd come home from Sugar's to find him passed out in her bed, his long, fat, uncut Black cock its own siren lure to her moist cunt. But she'd extracted a price from him, something he could pay -- that skilled tongue on her, eating her to multiple orgasms. She hadn't even taken off her dress, the purple silk dress bunched up around her waist as his calloused fingers gripped her hips.

She dozed after yet another orgasm, then blew her homeless stud as he smoked the most vile of ****. And the war raged on within her. Utter surrender. Or to salvage her life.