"Francine actually," she said with a small laugh. "My mother rather favored the French. A Huguenot her father or grandfather was, I've forgotten which..."We stood awkwardly in her back room. The house was quiet, and I assumed we were alone. She might have been twenty-five, perhaps even thirty, with a fine forehead, strong nose, and square chin; she was no delicate beauty, but a lovely woman with a fine, voluptuous body, full-hipped, long-legged and very healthy. She smelled good too. My root. Her skirt was hiked up over her waist, and her panties were caught around her knees. Her slender boytoy had his hands on her hips, and was giving her an energetic pumping with that oddly thick member of his. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but his were fixed on her pale buttocks, the flesh of which rippled every time he pushed in. He hadn’t gone from awkward virgin to pro overnight, but he was making big strides. The redhead’s legs shook and wavered on the especially deep strokes, and I could. More

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