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That's all you're going to be doing.

I wouldn't say that just yet.

How are you?

Hey!

Hey, how are you?

Good, and how are you?

Good.

Good.

Don't make a sound.

I heard you in there, you little whore.

Shut up or I'll gag you.

Lift your skirt up. Hold this.

I knew what you were.

You like that don't you?

Yes I do.

Who is this pussy belong to?

You.

Wrong answer.

Same.

This pussy belongs to Miss Farrah.

This pussy belongs to Miss Farrah.

That's right.

Hey.

Who are these tits belong to?

These tits belong to Miss Farrah.

Good girl.

Turn around.

Arch your back.

Yes, and it is this ass, Mom, too.

It belongs to you, Miss Vanna.

I should make you wash the stink off my cock.

It might be fun to make some of the horror

suck it tonight.

Look at me.

Is this the beauty that you crave?

Is it not?

I wasn't always a complete whore. My boyfriend Luke and I grew up in Linden,

Washington, a small church town near the Canadian border. As Ernest Hemingway said

about his hometown, Linden was a town of wide streets and narrow minds. Luke and I

had known each other since grade school and we started formally dating in high

...