" She adds almost as an afterthought, " I'm close, don't stop."We keep along for a little while, and soon she stops her obscene chant and begins babbling filthily. I love it."Oh, you motherfucker don't you stop you bastard fuck me, fuck me fuck me fuck my pussy you son of a bitch, don't stop, fuck me harder-"A distant idiotic part of my mind wonders what she has against my parents.She inhales sharply as if I've hurt her, and then screams at the top of her lungs. In the neighborhood around us, dogs begin barking and I think at least one car alarm goes off.Her hips and pussy both begin clenching, shaking and impossibly, because she's so wet, rubbing my cock and before I even have time to realize it I'm coming too, and what feels like a few liters of semen boils into the front of the condom.She moves her hips against me in a milking motion, laughing. I half collapse on top of her, pinning her against the railing, she squeals at the touch of the metal against her skin. I wrap my arms. We met in the third grade when my dad, a successful financial advisor, was transferred from his job in our hometown in Northern Ontario. I was 9 years old, and the news that we would be moving 1,500 miles away seemed like the end of the world. My mom had died in a car accident when I was 4, and the thought of leaving the house that her and my dad had built together when they were first married made my chest hurt. I didn't want things to be different. Of course, with 9-year-olds, nothing is ever set in stone. It took about six weeks (and plenty of fishing trips) but my dad finally convinced me that this was a good thing. He would be making a better salary, we would be in a city that was always warm — so I could go swimming and fishing and camping any time of the year. He told me that I would make new friends and that just because we were leaving our small Canadian city, we would never leave our memories of mom behind. I knew my heart wasn't really in it, but I loved my dad and trusted.
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