Gently nudging Granny back a step, I slipped my fingers inside the hem of her knit and lifted. I wasn't surprised at the underwear - not at all. Black...- red trim - plunging cup line. It was a bit more than a 1/2 cup, but not much more. I tossed the knit top on bed, took a step back, and stared. All I could really say is "Amazing!" She smiled and put her hands on her waist, standing there almost smugly. She clearly knew I was buying what she was selling.I placed my hands on her shoulders, pulled. My parents and I went nearly every Sunday. One Sunday, while I was setting with another group of boys my age in Youth Sunday School, the pastor came in. The Sunday School teacher had apparently known he was going to drop in. The pastor gave us boys a stern warning about the 'sin' of touching ourselves (meaning, masturbation). As young boys, the very mention of such a thing caused an automatic nervous reaction, because, as the pastor obviously suspected (and rightly so) we were doing precisely. Scott adjusted the paper number pinned to his running tank and bounced on the balls of his feet. He was ready to get going."Marines, gather round," a voice called.The Marines were well represented on campus and they'd agreed to run together. He counted fifteen who had shown up for the event."Who's going to call cadence?" the runner next to Scott asked.Predictable groans fill the air."Come on," Scott said, "we've got to show the rest of these pukes how it's done." Damn right," said a woman ahead. But your live squirming chicken body takes the cake! And I can fuck you too!"He held her against his belly for a moment. She continued struggling but he was still."Yes, I'm going to do it. She's jerking off, let's you and me go join her, Henrietta Hen."He stomped over to the latticework, turned the corner, and walked up to Connie with his ten-inch cock sticking out of his jeans. He carried the hen by her neck like a wine bottle or a small sack, casually.Her eyes were closed. Her feet were dug.
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