. . the wee angel . . . ahhh . . . ahhhh . . . ahhhhh . . .– Yeahsss . . . swallay! I’m farting oot loads ay gas, it’s burning my eyes. The power of that Lauriston Place Curry Hoose’s vindaloo!She’s swallayin rather than spitting. I feel like I’m going to pass out as I pump it into her. There’s a tense pounding at the back of the neck like my head was being lifted off with a shovel, but it’s ebbing, just like my spunk against the back of her throat and down her gullet. She’s choking, but I haud her heid steady until I’m ready, then I withdraw my cock from her miserable torn face, stuff it in my troosers, zip up and leave her to her tears. – That’s us square hen, till the next time. Keep away fae this stuff, I smile, waving the pills at her and pocketing them. – And tell your auld man that Bruce Robertson was asking for him, I wink, brushing a few flakes of dead skin from her shoulders.I was asking for him, but I got you instead doll.I go through to the lobby leaving the wee slut to soak up that distinctive curry, Guinness and spunk atmosphere.
