"Oh, I want to be screwed!" she cried softly, throwing her hands out to her sides desperately and tightening her thighs in an effort to assuage the sensations that were tearing through her.
Her right hand touched something hard, cylindrical, slightly warm. She gasped and closed her fingers around it. She knew what it was: The handle of one of Burt's barbecue utensils, warm from the nearness of the still-hot coals. It was of hardwood, quite smooth the full length of its fat, cylindrical shape, and having a knob at the end, a knob not too unlike the head on a male phallus.
She moaned, pulled her hand toward her, still clasping the symbolic shape, and pressed it to her crotch through the fabric of the negligee. The touch made her whimper. She opened her tight thighs and pulled up the neglig
