”“Cheers,” said Peter.“Mazeltov!”“Scotch,” commented Peter’s father, after downing the shot in the paper cup.Frank Boscow nodded. “I...got to liking it when I was in Da Nang during the war.” Peter looked at him curiously; Frank rarely discussed his Viet Nam service. “The only way to survive that place was drunk or stoned, and I was just too scared to do drugs! It was either bourbon or Scotch, and I didn’t like bourbon.”His counterpart smiled and reached inside his own coat pocket and pulled out a. “You like that, don’t you. You dirty little slut?”“Ohhh god yes,” I moan.He presses against me, his cock rising again, pushing against my sex. His hands are ruthless. He kneads and pulls on my tits, twisting my nipples. The pain is so sweet.I grab his head and pull him back down so that I can ravage his mouth with my tongue. We kiss deeply, our tongues mingling. His hands are all over me, bruising my flesh. I feel them travel down to my thighs. I feel his fingers part my lips, teasing my wet. More

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