Quebec is on fire. And the weather gurus divine that the haze spreading south is no longer confined to the upper reaches of the Adirondack Mountains. It’s settling in low country. It smells here as if folks are burning autumn leaves…in June. It has a masculine scent.
I can smell it in Lori’s hair. As I pound her vagina as brutally as I can from behind. I spear the bitch I collected up just over a day ago and lean forward to play with her breasts as the fucking ramps up. And when I do I can inhale that smoky scent that clings to Lori as well as the bed atop which she is being raped. I can smell Canada each and every time I shove my cock deep and hard into this trembling slut who doesn’t accept the fact that she can’t go home.
I can taste it on Lori’s skin. The arms I kiss as I give her a twenty minute respite from being skewered by my sadistic cock. The throat I get to lick in humiliating fashion. Prior to the sublime moments when my cum paints Lori’s womb with a badge of shame. A degradation sparked a couple of hundred miles north of the basement that Lori is being held prisoner.
Quebec is burning. And Lori is paying the price. I’m driven crazy by the smell of her hair. It prompts me - motivates me - to rape Lori repeatedly. And every time I do I tell the whore that she is never going home.
