He stands upright, and tells me the tights are now mine to keep. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small packet, and produces a condom, which he expertly rips open, and rolls onto his massive tool before i’m able to protest. He pins me down, grabs my sticky wet crotch and rips my underwear open, making me sigh in sadness. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty more of those for you where they came from” he nonchalantly says. He grabs both of my ankles, pushes my knees up to my chest, and jabs a cold slippery finger at my puckered bud. I freeze up, and exclaim “NO! It’s going to hurt, it’s too big!” He simply laughs at me and says it’s numbing, I won’t feel a thing. Before I know it, he has one finger buried inside me followed by another and finally a third. All the while, he has my legs in the air, and his tongue in my mouth. I’m squirming constantly. Then, with a massive plop, and sending a shiver down my spine, he pulls out, stands up, and looks down at me, almost sneering, as he rubs. He heard her sudden intake of breath. He slowed his exploration, let his fingers follow the distinct boundary of her wound, crossing her chest, let them return to the smoothness under her breasts and revisit her nipples. Then he let them return to her scarred shoulders, let his fingers oh so gently trace the network of unevenness, the creased depressions and tight ridges, as if he’d been admiring the exquisite tracery of a Moorish screen window. He found which depressions matched the width of which finger, caressed each ridge, each crease. As his fingers climbed ever higher, she kept her hands on his but made no more attempts to check his exploration. Some of her throat still had the peachy feel of ordinary skin, other parts had the wrinkled shinyness of healed burns that continued up over her jaw-line and across her face. She let him explore her devastation. So this was why she had chosen a lovemaking position where she faced away from him! In fact, perhaps this was why she had.
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