All coherent poise fled on downy wings as his hard finger pads grabbed my quim. Palm and thumb rubbed: I fell into the abyss of sin once more. If not anchored firmly on both ends, the chair and I would have splattered. His Lordship forced two crises. I panted, sloe-eyes lidded, in my mouth his wet hand replaced hers, as a mongrel bitch in heat, I lapped and suckled digits, my carnal appetite apparently insatiable. Two hard feminine slaps. I unsteadily clambered off the chair. My uniform restored, hem to mid-shin, eyes downcast, cheeks marked. Miss Frothinglips led me away.

This link goes to The Bumhampton Chronicles category so you can catch up at any time.