Allison Crocker sat on the floor. It would have been much more comfortable to lie on the bed or sit in any of the many chairs in the room but Allison was not allowed on the furniture. The shag carpet was itchy against her bare skin, especially her tattoo. She rubbed at it, a thing she did countless times a day as if somehow rubbing would make it go away. It was a rather large tattoo; bold script letters spelling the words “Connie’s Girl”. It was emblazoned on her ass.

 She pulled at the chain locked around her throat, shifting it from one side of her neck to the other. The chain was not particularly heavy - far stronger than she could break, of course -  but heavy enough to be a constant bother. It was secured around her throat by a padlock, the other end bolted to the floor. It was long enough for her to reach the bathroom but no windows or doors. Not that that mattered; even if the chain were to magically fall away Allison would remain exactly where she was.

  It had been more than two years ago, though to Allison it was another life. Beth’s fourth birthday had been two weeks away and Allison had spent the morning making arrangement for the party. Allison wanted it to be an extravagant affair people would talk about for months. She wanted it for Beth, of course, but also because Ted, her ex, would be there and she wanted him to see how far in the world she had come without him.  She had just booked the ponies and the hot air balloon when the phone rang. It was a client, which was odd because the call had come in on Allison’s personal line, a number she had given only to her parents and the administrators of the pricey day care that kept Beth and Morgan – Allison’s youngest, while she was at work, so in case of an emergency she could be reached immediately.

 “You represent the Eastman estate,” said the woman without preamble. “I have the financial means and I am very motivated. Meet me there in ten minutes.” The phone went dead.

  Allison was a little put off by the woman’s abrupt manner – she hadn’t even given her name. She was tempted to just ignore the call, but on the other hand the Eastman place listed for over two million and those kinds of buyers were few and far between. A two million dollar sale carried a hefty commission.

  Allison arrived at the Eastman home right on schedule. It was a secluded place near the river, obscured by the surrounding trees and kept private behind a tall brick wall. Allison had assumed she had the only key so she was surprised to find the driveway gate open. There was a battered old pick-up truck parked at the front door. The gardener, she assumed, as she parked her Mercedes behind it. The driver’s door of the truck opened and a man got out. No, it was a woman, but decidedly masculine, right down to the crew-cut. She was in her mid-fifties perhaps, and large – large as in brawny, dressed in baggy combat pants, heavy boots and a tee shirt stretched tight over a lot of muscle. She strode directly towards Allison. 

  People who could afford houses this nice wore designer clothes and drove status cars. Allison had reasoned from the phone conversation the buyer was probably a tad eccentric – “eccentric” as in crazy but rich,  and maybe her GI Joe get up and the truck were just some  of the symptoms.

  Everyone said Allison had a million dollar smile and at that moment she turned it on. “Hi,” she said, extending her hand, “I’m Allison Crocker.”

  Without a word, without a flicker of expression, the woman took Allison’s hand in her own…and yanked. Hard.

  A jolt shot through Allison and for a moment she was stunned helpless by shock and pain of a dislocated shoulder. The woman pulled again, this time dislocating Allison’s elbow. She reached over and took Allison’s left arm and yanked it from the shoulder socket as well. Amazingly, Allison remained on her feet, too shocked and paralyzed by pain to move. A voice in her head urged her to scream, but everything, including thought, was swallowed by the torrent of agony.

 The woman moved aside Allison. She lifted Allison’s dangling right arm and tucked it under her own and went to work on Allison’s fingers, dislocating them joint by joint.

  When this was done she moved to the left hand. the second hand.

 Somehow – certainly because the woman wanted it so - Allison was on her back on the drive. With the passionless efficiency of a craftsman plying a well practiced trade, the woman raised Allison’s right leg and twisted and pulled, breaking her thigh from her hip socket. The sound was sickening. The pain was far, far worse. Again that voice in Allison’s head said “scream!” But nothing would come. The other leg followed. The woman pulled off Allison’s shoes and began on the toes. 

The woman paused for a smoke. Allison lie there helpless, commanding her limbs to move,  flail, flee, but they merely quivered like slabs of boneless meat. The woman flicked her cigarette away then knelt over Allison and went to work in earnest.

  Her fingers would seize a joint, probe at the nerves beneath the flesh like a ferret sniffing prey and then stab and the pain would erupt like some ugly symphonic crescendo. The small voice in her head stopped asking her to scream and began asking “why?” But any answers were lost in the cascade of agony.

  Finally, ages later, the woman stopped for another smoke. When next she bent over Allison it was to put her back together again. The pain of re-assembly was even more maddening, the searing jolts, the gunshot cracks of joints being slammed back into place. When she was done she looked down at Allison and smiled and her smile said “I can take you apart and when it pleases me I can put you back together again.” Using her words, she said, “Get up.”

 Allison was surprised she could do just that. She struggled to her feet. Her face dripped with tears, snot and vomit..

  “You’re a mess,” said the woman. “Get naked.”

 Ten minutes earlier the words would have shocked and appalled Allison, but now, if the woman had handed Allison a knife and said “Slit your own throat”, Allison would have instantly complied, anything to avoid a repeat of suffering she had just endured. Allison fumbled out of all of her clothes.

  “Get in the truck.”

 Allison did. The life she had known was now over.

  Allison tugged again at the chain around her throat and shifted her position on the hard floor. This was her life now, naked except for the ridiculously high platform shoes -  chained in this room, day upon day of relentless, mind-numbing boredom.

 In less than a week Beth would begin school. There would be lots to do – a wardrobe of school clothes to buy, and supplies! And of course, little Morgan could not be left out!  And certainly she wanted to make a good impression on Beth’s teacher and…No! Allison tore her mind from that track. No! No!

 For the first several months Allison had broken the boredom by imagining she had never gotten that mysterious phone call, never gone to the Eastman estate to meet the nameless client, had not – like a meek and obedient little puppy -  peeled off her clothes and gotten into that truck. Instead, she would pass the time pretending her life was just as it had been, still living in her fine home with her two young daughters, still  a successful business woman with a rich social life and lots of good friends. In her pretend life she had even married Rod Harper, her boss and the two of them were deliriously happy.

 She had gotten so good at pretending – it became so real – that the room, the floor, the chain would disappear and as if by magic her old life would materialize around her so vivid and rich she could feel the silkiness of little Morgan’s cheek as she kissed it and see Beth’s blonde hair take on a shine as Allison lovingly stroked  it with a brush. It was wonderful. Better even than real.

 But then – always – the door would swing open and ugly old Connie would walk in and the imaginary world would come crashing around her in jagged little shards.. And it was just as if her life had been torn away again, the pain as fresh and vivid as the first time, and Allison would curl into a ball and weep bitterly.

 Stricken with guilt, Connie would try to console her, but it was always so awkward it only made it worse. How do you console someone whom you kept naked and chained – someone with your name tattooed to their flesh?

  Connie would make a valiant effort of it anyway, sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing Allison’s shoulder and apologizing profusely,  for everything.

 “Just a stupid phone call,” Connie would say, “In a moment of weakness. Believe me, if there was any way I could undo it.”

 And there it would be, the pause, the ugly unspoken truth, the fact that Connie could undo it. Always at that instant Allison wanted to scramble to Connie’s feet and swear on all that was dear to her – the lives of her children even – swear that if Connie were to let her go Allison would say nothing, would concoct some story about depression and running away and spending two years in a remote cabin, and now she was healed and had returned to resume her life. But she could not. Maxine’s lessons were a part of her now, as much a part of her as her as the bones beneath her flesh and the rules said you did not escape and you did not ask.

After an hour or more of rubbing Allison’s naked shoulder Connie’s lust would be up. “We should get some sleep,” she would say, “Tackle this problem in the morning when our minds are fresh.”

  Allison would climb to her feet, stumble off to the bathroom in those ridiculously high heels, the chain trailing behind her. There, she would brush her teeth and wash the tears and snot off her face. Then she would return, climb into the sheets and spend the next hour licking Connie’s wrinkled old pussy.

 By the next morning Connie’s guilt would have passed and all discussion of freeing Allison would be forgotten. Connie would leave for work and Allison, alone, naked and chained, would slip back into the seductive warmth of her dream world.

 Many hours later Connie would return and the whole ugly scene would play itself over again.

 Until one day, instead of consoling her, Connie threw up her hands in frustration. “I’m out there busting my as so the two of us can have a good life, and this is the thanks I get! All I want when I get home is just a tiny hint of appreciation, may a little ‘Hello, how are you?’ But no! All I get is weeping. How do you think that makes me feel?” Her arms flaying wildly, Connie’s eyes locked suddenly on the phone. “Maybe I should phone Maxine.”

 Allison’s heart froze. This time she did fall at Connie’s feet and swear on the lives of her children this would never happen again, from now own she was going to be happy. And make Connie happy. Deliriously so! I swear! I swear!

 The only way Allison could keep this promise was to relinquish her dream life, let it go once and for all. So she did.

Allison Crocker pulled at the chain locked around her throat, shifting it to a more comfortable position. She watched the shadow creep slowly across the bedroom floor, watched it slide across the room  with the implacable tedium of  a glacier. After it had covered the floor it would start its climb up the wall. Moments later the room would give way to darkness and then Connie would return from work. It was the same routine (routine – was there any more appropriate word to describe Allison’s life?), every day, seven days a week. Each morning Connie, an early riser, would clean house and dress for work before waking Allison. “’Morning”, Allison would say in a sleepy voice as she climbed naked – naked except for the shoes on her feet, shoes with twelve inch soles - out of the bed, pulling the chain behind her and take up her position on the floor. Connie would make the bed then lean down for Allison to give her a kiss on the cheek.  “Have a good day,” Allison would say, her voice still rough from sleep. Connie would depart, closing the door behind her.

 Allison  pulled at the chain where it chafed her throat. – though it did  not hurt as much as the first few…what, months? Months? Was that her increment of measure now?

 The first day – the day Maxine had assaulted Allison, left her a quivering, broken mess on the drive of a vacant estate – Allison had measured time in seconds; how many seconds until the current explosions of pain subsided? How many seconds until she could swallow back enough agony to manage a scream? How many seconds until neighborhood security noticed the gate was open and came to investigate? How many seconds until this orgy of suffering ceased?

 “You’re a mess,” had said Maxine when finally the torture was over, “Get naked and get in the truck.” Allison had done as she was told.

 Maxine fired up the truck and they drove away. It was at that juncture Allison moved from seconds to minutes – any minute now police cars would come screaming up; any minute now a phone would ring and this insane woman would be informed she had abducted the wrong person – she is not spy, damn it – she’s a fucking real estate executive!. Any minute now this nightmare would be over. Any minute.

 The trip ended at a seedy little downtown bar called “The Bird’s Nest”. Maxine fished behind the truck seat, pulled out a grease-stained towel and thrust it at Allison.

“Go inside and wait while I park.”

 It was broad daylight and the towel was so small and threadbare it covered nearly nothing. Allison  checked the street to make sure no one was watching, jumped out of the truck and dashed through the door. Inside, the place was dark and empty. The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant masking an underlying stench of vomit and beer.

 The thought of running never crossed her mind. The agony she suffered outside the Eastman estate had drained her of any volition except the need to avoid pain. If she was going to escape, help would have to come from an outside source.

 A bell over the door chimed and Maxine strode in. She rummaged behind the bar, pulled a crumpled paper sack  and shoved it into Allison’s hands. Motioning  to a door near the rear, she said. “Go wash. Do yourself up extra nice. Tonight you’re dancing.”

  Behind the door was a tiny bathroom with a stained toilet and sink. The walls were covered with graffiti, most of it angry and vulgar..

 The paper bag contained a mishmash of combs, brushes, cosmetics and nail polish, all of it used, probably collected from what patrons had lost or left behind over the years. There was even a pair of mismatched false eyelashes and a crumpled tube of glue to apply them.

  Allison set the bag on the toilet lid and washed herself in the sink. She dried with the crusty old towel and then wrapped it back around her. Any minute now, she was still thinking – any minute now. In the meantime she leaned into the cracked mirror and began applying makeup, a hopeless task given the tears streaming down her face..

  There was pounding at the door and she jumped, spilling the bag into the sink.

  “Get the lead out!” shouted Maxine, “Earl’s on his way to tattoo you!”

The shadow was halfway up the wall now and any moment the room would be swallowed in darkness. And soon after that Connie would be home. The routine – was there any better way to describe Allison’s life – was simple Connie would return and Allison would be on. On. What was it they said in theater just before the curtain rose and the actors assumed their roles? Noises off? Yes, noises off.

 Probably because it filled some consensus fantasy of the middle-aged dykes who frequented the Bird’s Nest, Maxine required Allison to act like a sullen teenager. Allison had learned the part so well that one day, with a gasp, she realized she was no longer acting.

 And then she became, as the tattoo on her hip said: “Connie’s Girl.” Connie wanted bright and bubbly -  a cheerleader. A cheerleader eager to lick cunt.

 So all the piercing – the studs and rings that riddled her body and made her look like a walking pin cushion – were removed and after a few months the holes healed shut.

  The bleach and garish makeup was washed away and Allison was given a wholesome look. As wholesome as you could look wearing nothing but  twelve-inch heels and a tattoo.

 The shadow was halfway up the wall now. Any minute Connie’s old Cadillac would come rumbling up the drive, tipsy from the three martinis she would have consumed at King Arthur’s Lounge.. Time to go to work. Allison opened her thighs, moistened a finger in her mouth and then began rubbing her clitoris with it.  The trick was not to spend it, to arouse herself and sustain the arousal until Connie came home, and beyond.

 Allison could act happy to see Connie, act eager to make love to her, but Connie wanted her to prove it, and proof was a dripping vagina.

  The finger on her clitoris quickened. Sometimes she imagined  making love to her ex, or boys she had dated, or Rod Harper,  but as the months passed the faces had begun to fade and the fantasies with them. So she created imaginary lovers like the ones on the covers of romance novels.

 The door would burst open and there he would stand, his hair wind tossed, his chest nearly bursting from his half buttoned shirt, his shoulders too wide for the door. His would stride in, his steely blues eyes moving hungrily over her nakedness. He would spy the chain, scoff, and  snap it in his hands like a thread. He would scoop her up in his strong arms and move for the door, but think better of it, turn and lay her on the bed and then ravish her then and there.

 Allison’s breath quickened. The trick was to bring herself to the height of arousal by the time Connie arrived. Over the months she had discovered that sometimes her fantasies could become quite vivid, and this one was particularly so, so vivid that she failed to hear the Cadillac pull into the drive or the door to the bedroom open. The bedroom light snapped on.

Noises off.

 “Hi!” she said in her perkiest voice, rising – despite the shoes - to her feet in one smooth motion. “How was your day?”

 Connie, tossing the fast-food bag onto the dresser – Allison’s only meal of the day – muttered a reply, but her words were too slurred by the martinis to be discernible. Not that it mattered.

 “Oh, I missed you so!” Allison continued. She could see herself reflected in the dressing mirror affixed to the bathroom door, naked, slender, all legs in those shoes, her sex shaved hairless, her small breasts bouncing as she talked.

  “H-happy to see me?” managed Connie, so drunk she could hardly stand.

  “Of course I am,” Allison replied. She opened her legs and thrust her hips forward. “See!”

  Connie’s hand groped at Allison’s sex, her fingers fumbling and digging for the opening. “Ah!” cried Connie in delight when her fingers finally found the dripping wet slot, “You are! You are!”

 Allison let out an almost audible sigh of relief. The hard part was over. Connie was highly emotional – especially when she was drunk. The objective was to keep everything in the positive. Connie’s fickle attitude could swing on the smallest sour note (Allison not being wet and aroused was a very sour note indeed), and when they swung the first thing she started thinking about was phoning Maxine.

  “Oh, it looks like you had a terrible day. You poor baby! You’re exhausted. Let’s get you out of those sweaty old clothes.” While undressing Connie, Allison showered her with kisses, kissing the turkey wattle at Connie’s neck, kissing her withered, sagging breasts. Then, cooing and still kissing, she coaxed Connie towards the bed. The point was to have Connie asleep as quickly as possible, while the effects of the alcohol were still on her.

 Allison slipped into the bed with her, wedged her face between Connie’s wrinkled thighs and began furiously licking.

  With a shudder, as she licked, Allison thought of the other things she could be doing for Connie, revolting things the old dykes at the Bird’s nest had taught her, had forced her to do over and over until she could perform them to perfection. But Connie was, in a sense, innocent and inexperienced. As far as Allison could surmise, she was Connie’s first and only sexual partner and a straight gamming was all Connie knew. Which was fine by Allison. A straight gamming was quick and easy, and she wasn’t about to mention to Connie the countless other things at which she was so skillful.

  In a few minutes Connie groaned, dug her hands into Allison’s hair, arched her back, gave a few quick jerks, and was done. Allison waited for her to drift off to sleep before pulling her face out of her thighs.

  Allison climbed out of bed. Tugging the chain behind her, she went to the bathroom, leaned over the toilet and vomited. She brushed and gargled vigorously and then bathed in scalding hot water.

  As she lay soaking in the tub she noted how her feet, so accustomed to the sharp pitch of the platform shoes she wore constantly, curled naturally into an on-her-toes position. Standing flat-footed now would be painful and almost impossible.

 With a razor she shaved her sex. As she often did with the razor in her hands, she contemplated how easy it would be to slit her wrists – up and down, she knew, not across, slicing the arteries lengthwise - then sliding down into the hot, soapy water and quietly, peacefully leaving. Only the thought of not dying, of being discovered, of opening her eyes and seeing Maxine standing over her, made her put the razor aside.

  She toweled herself dry, put the shoes back on, went back into the bedroom, opened the bag of food and ate. Then, to the sound of Connie’s snores,  she resumed her position on the floor.

 Allison was a prisoner here, held captive by the chain padlocked around her throat, the other end fixed to a bolt in the floor at the foot of the bed. More thoroughly though, she was held captive by the fear of Maxine and the pain Maxine could inflict upon her. Allison was the prisoner and Connie was the prison keep. But in a sense, Connie was just as much a prisoner – prisoner to her guilt- guilt of having stolen Allison, robbed her of her children, her freedom, her life. That’s why she worked so hard and long, seven days a week, because the work was a distraction that could make her temporarily forget. That was why each night before coming home, Connie stopped off at the King Arthur Lounge and numbed herself with drink. The drink made her almost forget that Allison’s cheerfulness, her fervid affection, her eagerness to make love to Connie, was just an act, and act of fear and desperation.

A few hours later Allison grew drowsy, climbed into bed beside Connie and drifted of to sleep.

A day in the life.

                                                            CHAPTER 4

  Allison Crocker tugged irritably at the chain locked around her throat. Damn, it was hot! Stifling! She never imagined you could be naked and still get so hot and sweaty. The shadow was only halfway across the room – hours yet until dark. The chain was long enough to give her full access to any part of the bedroom, including the adjoining bath. It would be no trouble at all to walk over and open  the windows. Hell, it would be no trouble at all to walk over to the thermostat and flick on the air conditioner. But she dared not. Everything in the room, including the furniture, was off limits. That was why she was sitting on the floor. Dripping in sweat

 Worse than the heat though, was the boredom.

  Her year at the Bird’s Nest may have been utter hell, but it was never boring. If she wasn’t waitressing - prancing around in scanty outfits and  platform shoes with the ridiculously high soles, being groped by every lesbian patron with the price of a beer  – she was perched on the rickety wooden crate that served as a stage, writhing to the scratchy music while dozens of hungry female eyes watched her strip down to nothing but those shoes.

  The floor, the stage, or the curtained alcove where she went to make feverish love to any dyke with  twenty bucks. That was her life at the Bird’s Nest. Hell – hell beyond her wildest imagining. But not boring.

  The only thing she retained from her days at the Bird’s Nest was the shoes. And the countless tricks she had been forced to learn, perfect and perform behind the curtain in the alcove. But those she kept secret. Now her days were spent chained to the foot of an old dyke’s bed.

  She was about to pull again at the chain when suddenly she heard the tromp of boots just outside the door. Her hand slipped instantly to her sex.

  The door knob turned.

 No!

 No! No! No!

 She pulled her hand away. There was no one outside the door. It was purely her imagination.

 It began months ago as a device to arouse herself to fool Connie into thinking Allison desired her. To effect this, Allison fantasized about handsome, muscle-bound men come to rescue her; only, in the act of rescue, finding her naked and helpless and so desirable, they could not resist throwing her on the bed and making passionate love.

 It was merely an expediency. That’s all. But somehow the expediency had become a practice, which in time had become a need.

 But what else was there to think about? The fact that somewhere out beyond the walls of this room her youngest daughter was about to turn four and some other woman was making preparations for the party? Her oldest daughter would soon be starting second grade and that other woman was taking her shopping for school clothes? Was that what she was supposed to be thinking about? Wondering what she looked like, this other woman her daughters were probably calling “mommy”? Just the thought made her curl into a ball and weep so bitterly she ached.

Given the fact there were no interruptions or distractions, given that her existence was spent in a virtual sensory deprivation tank, her sexual fantasies could become remarkably vivid, so vivid in fact that realty dissolved and fantasy came to life. But when she reached an orgasm –  orgasms that were always small and maddeningly unfulfilling, the fantasies would dissolve and reality would barge in.

 A sweltering tank. Damn, it was hot!

 The tromp of the boots was louder now, right outside the door. Allison was about to banish the fantasy again when suddenly the door shattered.

  He was standing there, in the tattered doorway, bathed in a golden light. He was new; different from the others, coarser; more animal. Over one eye was a black patch. His smile held a measure of contempt. “I see you are pleased I am here,’ he said, with a sneer, nodding to the hand that was stroking her shaved vagina. Allison gasped in shame and yanked her hand away. He strode in. Arms folded across his massive chest, he loomed over her. His skin glistened with sweat. Beneath his tights his immense erection throbbed.

  Instinctively, Allison’s eyes went to the chain that depended from her neck and coiled to the floor.

 “Sorry, my little pet,” he said with a laugh, “But I have no desire to rescue you.”

  To her surprise, Allison discovered she had clambered onto the bed of her own accord. Her thighs were open and her bald sex wantonly displayed.

 He snorted with derision. “Nor do I have any interest in that,” he said, indicating her wet and pulsing cunt. He reached down and his strong, rough hands took hold of her ankles and with one quick motion her belly was on the bed. “This,” he said, pulling her legs even wider open, “This is what I came for.”

  Allison gasped and tried to scramble away but his grip was like a vice. She could feel his weight descend upon her, feel his breath, hot against her neck.

 “Sorry, my pet”, he said, his voice resonant with lust, “But this will hurt.”

 With all her might she tried to flee, but it was hopeless, he was too strong, his need too demanding. She gasped when his fire-hot cock pressed against her anus. Then, with a single fierce thrust, he pierced her.

  “What are you doing on the bed!”

 It was Connie. Allison was surprised to find the room was dark. She wanted to respond, but she could not. She was lost in the grips of a relentless orgasm.

  The shadow was not yet halfway across the floor. Allison was naked. The room was sweltering and she was covered in sweat. Four days had passed and though the welts had diminished, the flesh of her back still stung from the beating Connie had given her. It had been an awful night. The precarious routine she and Connie worked so hard to maintain had come unhinged and had almost been shattered. For two days Connie had been wild-eyed, pacing back and forth in front the phone for hours, threatening to end it all, threatening to call Maxine. Allison spent the same hours on the floor on her knees begging Connie to forgive her, swearing her undying love, assuring Connie that the vicious beating had been not only well deserved, but appreciated.

 Only last night had the routine returned to a semblance of normalcy.

 Normalcy?

 And now Allison sat naked on the floor, eyes affixed to the door, aching for the one-eyed stranger to return.

 The orgasm she had experienced was beyond description, and now her ass throbbed at the memory of it. The need was upon her like a raving thirst. Still, no matter how hard she stared at the door, how vigorously she stroked her pussy, the stranger would not return.

 No matter. Allison knew that even if he did, it would not be enough - fantasy would no longer suffice. Allison wanted more than anything to be fucked in the ass. Fucked in the ass for real. She needed it as much as she needed breath. But how? Who?

  She had no answer to the first question, but there was only one possible answer to the second – Connie.

 Allison turned her gaze away from the door and began working on her plan.

  That night when Connie staggered in so drunk she could hardly walk, Allison greeted her with even more enthusiasm than usual, adding more honey to her voice and more bounce to her breasts. Allison did not coax her straight to bed, instead, took her time, stringing her efforts out, stalling to give the numbing effects of the alcohol time to wear off . She wanted Connie to feel the full impact of what she was about to do.

  When finally Connie was in bed Allison went after her wrinkled old cunt with a fervor, nipping and nibbling at it, teasing and toying until the usually near-lifeless Connie was gasping with desire. Employing some of the skills she had perfected in the curtained alcove, Allison drove the old woman to ever higher plateaus of arousal, bringing her again and again to the brink of orgasm, but always pulling back at the last instant. And when the wrinkled old pussy was hot as a furnace, gushing juice, throbbing with desire and on the very lip of eruption, Allison shoved her slathering wet tongue all the way up it and sucked madly.

  Connie nearly died.

 Later, just before Connie collapsed into a deep sleep, Allison snuggled up tight to her, rubbing her pert young breasts up and down against the woman’s old and sagging ones and whispered into her ear: “Tomorrow, come home early. We can go dancing.”