They're all the same

What can I tell you? They say you should never ask a question you don't know the answer to. If you ask a man a question like that, there'll never be any danger of that. You know what he wants. He says it, but I don't hear. My eyes have glazed over. Preparing myself mentally for what is to come.

I'm ready for it. I want it. I'm sweating. "Let me," I say. Said. Said! "Fuck me how you want." He can have anything. I'll give him anything. I know he's old and ugly, but he's beautiful to me. I'll make him worth my while.

He's stronger than I expected. It comes out of you, when the situation demands it. Brutally, with my dress hiked up around my hips, he pushes my back up against the wall. The bricks scrape my skin. Thank God I wasn't wearing a bra, or it would've torn. Color spreads across my eyes when my head bangs against it. Then he adjusts his grip to het his hands under my ass. It seems unbelievable that he might even try, but...

His fly is unzipped. When did that happen? You did that. You, I, reached inside and stroked him through his underwear. And now it was pressed against your (my, fuck!) waiting, begging gorge. "Do it," I said to him. His fucking face. Who is this man? What has life done to him to make him look so beleaguered? There's a demon inside him. It's stronger than the lawyer or whatever he is that knows to act less cocksure when a young woman tells him

There are demons that can't be exorcised. It takes control from the working man, and he's grunting, moaning. He might fuck up my dress after all. With the wall there to support me, he has enough leverage to take a hand away from my ass

and use it to cover my mouth. Does he want to stop me from screaming for help? Or will he be embarrassed if I start howling like an animal in heat? I beg into his hand anyway. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" Who is this girl? I've done some things I regret, but never with this much gusto.