"I've spent many years in that convenience, constantly molested by perverts who think they've got it all. Now… I want you to burn those wrong hands that touched me. I want you to fuck me till I can't remember all they've done to me. Fuck me, please!"
Syril didn't bother saying anything. He didn't reply. He got the message. He knew what to do.
He easily swept her off her feet and carried her like his bride.
"Huh? Where to?" Puzzled Sherry asked.
"I remember your room," he simply responded.
The corners of her cheeks spread happily.
'He knows how to treat a woman. Who is this young man?' She thought bemusingly, resting her forehead as she fantasized owning the young man to herself.
In no time, her back found the softness of the mattress in her room.
He didn't bother scanning the room or scrutinizing its content. His woman stated her needs, and that was much more important.
"Hmmm," she hummed the moment the somewhat cold sheets came in contact with her sweaty, hot back.
