J. GoldbergWhat? No email and then this, what is it?I read it again.It clicked. This must be like those letters Thomas Jefferson wrote to that French ...hick. Or maybe Benjamin Franklin. I wondered if there was a direct quote in here. I whipped open my dictionary to be sure I understood everything he was saying.This was so much more thoughtful and personal than an email or IM. This was his way of saying we weren't getting divorced when I got back.The time and effort he put into creating this. All through the game I kept getting this stupid, excited smile on my face. It seemed the harder I tried to stop the smile, the bigger it became. I couldn’t wait to try and slide that vibrator up my ass.That night I didn’t even climb into bed. I made a beeline to the mattress to retrieve my prize, headed for the bathroom, grabbed the Vaseline, and stripped. Using two fingers I scooped out some lube and smeared it over my waiting hole. First I slid one finger in and out, and then a second joined.. The black stud gave a screeching sound as he went ahead giving her the works. His fingers dug into her waistline from where he held her; even in the dim and emptiness of the parking lot, the sound of their thighs smacking against each other, coupled with both of them moaning their delight reverberated around them. The black man fucked her hard and good, he pumped his cock in and out of her with energetic delight.They were still going at it, when there came the sound of approaching footsteps.. ”“Give us an hour. We’re slow walkers.”Fatima returned to the slums, which she thought she had lost. She made a break towards the East. A small line had formed at the water pump. Men held empty pails. She praised her bulging stomach for a defense against the cat calls. As the trail grew narrow, stirring with children, naked and dark from the sun, Fatima arrived at Mama Khadija’s small shack.“Mama Khadija! Mama Khadija!” she yelled.“Yes, yes, I am here,” she replied.“Mama Khadija!”“Ah my child,.
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