She had just ridden me to my second cum and the last of her climaxes while sliding her body up and down my shaft and teasing my mouth with her heavy swinging tits, jugs big enough to supply milk for a modest litter of kiddies or one big thirsty man like me.My sex life recently had been in the dumper. It had been three weeks since I had been laid and I was really tired of jacking off. However I never seemed to have much luck picking up women who were willing to go to bed with me, at least not unless I was willing to pay, and I didn't much care for prostitutes anyway.I had stopped off in the sports bar for a drink, more to drown my sorrows than from any expectation that I would get lucky, and after looking around at the customers, it appeared that my luck would hold. There were several guys huddled around the various TVs watching a division I-AA ball game, one that held absolutely no interest for me. However I ducked around the corner of the L-shaped bar and took a look at the dance. He was trying to move toward the door when music started. The music was odd. A strange sound. The Angela entered the room. Her body was framed by the lights and he could see the outline of that delicate little dancer's body. God help him. Angela knew she had to dance. She felt it as she entered the room. Peter Murphy belted out the lyrics to “Stigmata Martyr”. Angela moved slowly toward him and as she did she dropped some of her dress. She saw his face. He was transfixed. She danced and with the dance she felt a primal power surge inside her. She could literally feel the power bursting from her as the song moved into it's freeze frame section. The strange voice of Bauhaus's lead singer. The odd goth beat. She dropped more of her dress with each movement. Angela felt power. The church radiated it out. Sex was her power. Angela radiated it out to everyone around. Now she would have him. Finally, she would have him. ***** Jill lay on the alter. Cliff was fucking her ass. It hurt. It.
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