***
A decade later, Fletcher slipped his hands into the tatters of Sarah’s robe and rubbed her thick n*****s again, thinking once more of the lovely woman with her liquid eyes, and of John Willis, smiling happily, because he was dipping his wick into that French backside just as often as he felt like. Fletcher’s latent fantasies about f*****g Jocelyn in her elegant ass rose to the front of his mind, and gave him another nasty idea.
“She called John, son homme de porte arrière, her back door man. You thought it was repulsive, but Jocelyn said it didn’t count, having s*x that way. Do you remember, Sarah?” Her breath caught again as he squeezed her breasts for emphasis. “Get used to the idea, sweetheart,” he whispered silkily. “I’m going to be your back door man, starting right now. As long
