With all the reverence and care of plucking a jewel from a skull’s eye in an ancient, jungle-bound temple, I affixed my fingers to the emerald green butt-plug in Wendy’s ass and began to turn. She gasped and giggled, arched her back and looked back at me, grinning widely.
“It’s really stuck in there, huh?” she whimpered before letting out another gasp as her ass gave it up with a pop, but not before lewdly distending around the toy. The darkly tanned flesh seemed to pant from the exertion, not closing up all the way, and easily giving way to my fingers. Wendy squealed when I penetrated her, plunging my digits in and out a few times while she fumbled for the lubricant.
“Come on, Daddy,” she whispered, breathlessly. “Fuck my ass.”
Open on me: an academic type from central casting, in a tweed jacket (from England, by way of a thrift shop), dark mauve corduroys, and an auburn beard. Later twenties to early thirties, the humanities PhD playing at tenured professor, without the actual benefits of tenure, as a manifestation of “make it till you break it.”