“What are you going to do with it?” “Bury it deep inside you,” Houlihan responded. With that, he knelt over her and slid inside her. If she’d been stretched out by a few teenage boys, it wasn’t noticeable. He teased himself, slowly sliding out then shoving in quickly, then pulling back so he was almost out, teasing the head of his penis a bit, then once he had enough of that, furiously pistoned back and forth. He imagined his penis as a stick catching fire, because that’s what it sure felt like; a wonderful wet fire and she was tensing her muscles for added friction and she was gorgeous. Her breasts bobbled as he pumped her and he buried his face in them. They were lovely and soft and perfumed, and he wasn’t holding back, wasn’t being gentle at all, this little slut didn’t deserve a gentleman, she deserved to be fucked, hard. Houlihan’s mind was a jumble of images: the girls who had rejected him, the girls who hadn’t, the stuck-up ones in high school, the skanky ones from high school. I have seen her with that border tipping away from her shoulders. I am amazed that my heart has survived all those mild heart attacks whenever I have seen those blouse-encased breasts, straining out of the flimsy material. Even in the most orthodox-looking saris, she almost always wore low-neck blouses that revealed lots of cleavage whenever, by chance, the border of the sari fell down her shoulders. When she bent down, like to pick up something from off the floor, those huge breasts strained against her front, which made me wonder why they didn’t rip off the blouse and tumble out.She looked my way, gave me a small smile and a quick wink, rolling her eyes in mock despair and gently shrugging her shoulders, indicating the weirdoes bunched around her. I grinned back, lighting a cigarette. We were pretty close to each other and why not? Her husband was my wife’s brother.She was my sister-in-law. And though I was a year younger than her husband, I had no such psychological hang-ups like.
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