‘Who made you the way you are?’ I asked. ‘I have never told this story before,’ he said, as he sat down, ‘but I have rehearsed this over and...over in my head, at least a hundred times. I was born in 1863 to Harold Dean Hunter and Elizabeth Anne Hunter. My parents were very wealthy and we lived in a rich neighborhood in New York. A nanny raised me, my mother had a terminal illness and the doctors could find nothing to ease her pain. My father couldn’t stand to be at home and see his wife dying. This was fun and above all …shit it felt really good.Their thighs locked around each other. Their hands wandered everywhere including the slight tabooy anus opening touching. Maybe a hint of next time…a mutually stored thought.It was raunchy, rollicking and randy. They split from each other…satisfied, sated and basically stuffed. They needed a break.They kissed gently and hugged close in that girly after girly sex mood…the realisation of the power of what they had shared…the awesome capacity of. More

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