In truth, she didn’t care. Identities of the men were of little matter and contrary to her cause. She’d simply walked in, ordered a drink, removed...her wedding ring and sat down in a booth. Within two minutes she was playing tonsil hockey with a young Spaniard.Her finger rubbed her g-spot, as she remembered how gloriously thick the cock was, that belonged to the Spaniard. Uncircumcised, the thick foreskin rolling over the head and then exposing it again as she stroked it to life, getting him. She got up and I realized she wasn’t wearing much. She had on t-shirt with a picture of Tigger on it, bouncing on his tail with a caption that said, “Boing, boing, boing...” The shirt fell to the tops of her thighs and hid whether she wore panties or not. However, I could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra because she made Tigger bounce for real.I took another drink, trying to ignore what I was seeing. The conversation we had earlier floated around in the back of my mind. Faith wasn’t my biological. More

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