"That feels funny mister," she gasped.

Simon grunted in answer, too busy tasting and exploring to pull his tongue out. The slight tang as ass was on his tongue, the residual from a not perfect bathroom etiquette which was apparent from the slight brown skid marks he'd seen on her white panties leaving a delicate hint of her shit behind. This was not the first time he'd tasted a nymphette's shit, the practice repeated time after time when rutting in virginal rumps.

On the floor the Irish mother grunted as Billy Scott's attention shifted from her bloody mouth to her tits, his fat lips sucking one of the pear sized melons deep. The tall ex-con was none too gentle, his broken teeth bringing blood out of her left nipple as he broke the skin with the jagged rim of broken enamel.

"Ow 'ya bastard, you've cut me bleedin' tit almost off," she yelled as Billy Scott raised his face off the damaged boob, blood shining over his jagged teeth hiding the yellow stains permanently there. She cupped the injured point in her left hand, flinching as the grasp brought another stab of pain from the bleeding flesh. I oughta bite this mutha's cock off his bleedin' balls, she thought but in a flash realized her only child was being held hostage by the bastard up on the bed. Oh for one of them IRA automatic weapons about now.

Billy Scott relished the pain he was inflicting, his life made more difficult by the many travails he'd been forced to endure, why not be the one doing the inflicting for a change. He ran his hand down the mother's tummy, slightly rounded and made fuller by the richer diet she had undertook in this new country. In her country thinness was often treated as a sign of poverty, the well-rounded body projecting wealth and prosperity. One thing she'd swore upon boarding the American Airlines flight out of Belfast was to never again go hungry nor would her wee lass.

His hand was smooth, the farm boy calluses worn soft by the years in prison doing work in the laundry. Hot water and softeners made the body soft but the mind strong. The many hours he'd spent bumping his penis up against the vibrating drum of the big spin dryer thinking about all the pussy he'd get once he got out of doing his time. But life was cruel and he found his satisfaction was gained more often at the feel of his smooth palm or the hot tongue or spit slicked pussy of some ugly as hell whore in a back alley or flophouse.

The woman trembled as the hot palm ran over her lower belly, the skin crinkling in goose bumps, her breath caught in her throat at the feel of a human hand going south on her Irish body. It'd been a while, almost two months. A stop on the way from a trip into the city for some shopping chores for the wife of the family she was nannying for. Her eye catching the corner bar off the nice shopping district off Market, just a wee quick one, her mind saying.

The gentlemen in the tweed coat with the snap brim hat had winked at her as she sat at a small table in the corner and then he was bringing her a beer over, the Irish ale expensive so she'd accepted since, gee them sure was wee little bottle of ale now weren't they? The switch to Scotch hadn't been wise she'd remembered, the day getting later and her train back home due to leave at four in the evening. How she found herself in the small room of that hotel around the corner with her Irish legs hoisted up over the hairy rump of the smooth talking Bay man she didn't rightly remember, the Scotch easing the transition from respectable nanny to whoring trollop quite easily.

She made lame excuses about being tied up waiting for the expensive and exclusive store off Pershing Square to hand courier over the special order that maam insisted she pick up or not come back, causing her to miss the early train and having to catch the seven p.m. one, necessitating Maam to cook dinner for not only her own two brats but the Irish nanny's brat also.

"And by the way," Maam said, "I scraped the last of the pot roast into the disposal so you'll have to find yourself something to eat," were the last words flung down the stairway as the woman retreated to her private abode, wine glass in hand.

Melody shivered again as the broad hand skirted her waist and slipped over the bare skin there, the panties she'd had on now lying asunder on the rug near them. Her bush was trimmed but no bikini wax job, her budget didn't include that luxury. No, this as simply a matter of taking scissors and razor to trim, a whack here and a snip there, nothing fancy. The fingers ran through the short hairs at the top of her cuntal mound, the feel of the fine fur there being parted and the flesh underneath being touched stroking some primal sexual desire woman had been subjected to since Eve had that afternoon tea with the slimy one in the Garden. ......(cont)