Leather Dave and the Poor Little Rich Boy

It was a warm and humid night, and something about the heat and stickiness was irritating Dave’s temper. It wasn’t that he was dressed too warmly—he was wearing a pair of old jeans, worn thin by use, tucked into a pair of Xelement Tribal Skull bike boots; the tight jeans held his long thick cock snugly against the throbbing body of his Harley Fat Boy. Above, a tight leather vest left his thickly muscled arms and furry chest, already slick with sweat, open to the air as he cruised down the darkened highway.

But he was still irritated and edgy.  He knew what the problem was—he needed meat, and he needed it bad.  He hadn’t snuffed a bitch since the Bike Fest, and he was long overdue.  Tonight was gonna be some lucky fagmeat’s last night on Earth.

His handsome face curled into a frightening sneer at the thought.

He pulled into the bar’s parking lot.  He hadn’t hunted here in a while; the place was a murky dive, but every now and then a hot boywhore who didn’t know the score would show up.  It was worth a try, at any rate, and there were other places he could check out later if he didn’t land any prey here.

Luck was with him tonight, though.  Once inside, it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the smoky gloom; the air pulsated with the cacophonous roar of ill-played music from a band in the corner, blaring distortedly out of cheap speakers.  Once he got his bearings, though, his dark, flashing eyes were able to pierce the darkness.  He’d just gotten a beer when he spotted the cunt and knew immediately that tonight was gonna end with the faggot dying on his dick.

The little homo didn’t blend in well.  It was way too young to be in the bar—not that anyone was bothering to check.  More than that, its fashionably slashed $200 Diesel jeans and immaculately white t-shirt, both skin-tight, bespoke its upper-middle-class background.  A trucker’s cap, as dazzlingly clean and white as its shirt, was drawn down over its eyes, as if for protection from the rough trade surrounding it.

The punk was slumming, peeking furtively out from under its cap.  Suddenly, its eyes lit on the leather-clad stud and gleamed with an intense lust.  Dave smirked. Whatever it had been looking for, it had found it in him.

At least, by the time he was done with it, it wasn’t gonna be looking for anything anymore.

The boy sidled up to Dave.  “You, uh, you wanna buy me a drink?” it asked—hesitatingly but not shyly. 

“Fuck no,” Dave sneered, “I wanna jam my thick shaft up yer fuckhole, cunt.”

The boywhore reacted like an ecstatic puppy; if it had had a tail, it would’ve wagged it.  “Yeah!” it enthused, “Fuck yeah!  C’mon, dude, let’s get outta here and you can seed me as hard as ya want!”

“Go wait for me in the parking lot, bitch,” Dave said, “I’m gonna finished my beer.”

The cold contempt in his voice only excited the kid more.  He opened his mouth to object but thought better of it after catching a glimpse of Dave’s glare.  Meekly obeying the alpha’s command, he headed for the door.  Dave finished his drink, secure in the knowledge that no one would be able to say that the boy had left the bar with anyone.

 Once finished, he strode straight out of the bar.  Sure enough, the little cunt was waiting for him, sitting on a low parapet that adjoined the building, kicking the heels of its Air Jordan 1 Cool Grays against the wall.  Even from a distance, Dave could hear the faint thudding of the slut’s hightops against the brick over the sound of his own heavy boots striking the pavement.  For some reason, the sound irritated him.

“Over here, boy,” he barked, wheeling about and heading for his bike.  Behind him, the sound stopped and was replaced with soft footfalls as the kid hurried behind him like a dog anxious to obey its master. 

“Get on behind me, cunt,” Dave said, straddling the Harley.

“Donnie,” the kid said suddenly, with a slight touch of defiance in his voice, “My name is Donnie.”

“Like I give a fuck,” Dave growled.  “You ain’t nothing but a fucktoy.  Now get the fuck on.”

Donnie’s face flushed red, but the bulge in his tight jeans throbbed visibly at the alpha’s gruff commands.  He still hesitated a moment, though.

“Where we goin’?” he asked but spoke again before Dave could open his mouth.  “I gotta place.  Garage apartment at my folk’s house.  Just a single room, but I got it all fitted out.  Get fucked there all the time—my parents never bother me there.  And they’ll be in bed anyway.”

It was lucky that Dave’s face was in shadow; the shark-like grin that curled his lips into an ugly sneer might have been a red flag for the boy.  But the adolescent whore was so hormone-ridden it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway.  Donnie hopped on the bike and wrapped his arms around Dave’s muscled torso, burying his face in the stud’s leather vest

“It’s north of Main.  421 Royal Oak—the old historic district, y’know?  House was built in 1912,” he chirped, so intoxicated by the musky scent of the leather that he was unaware that he was starting to babble.  Dave fired up the Harley, the loud roar of its engine silencing the kid’s blathering; in seconds, they were speeding off into the darkness.

 It didn’t take Dave long to find the place.  It was a huge and incredibly ugly pseudo-Elizabethan pile, complete with false half-timbering and a back garden filled with crazy paving.  Next to the garden was a three-car garage with an exterior staircase leading to a dormered second floor.

He also noticed lights on in the back of the main house as he shut off the Harley.  “I thought you said they’d be asleep,” he said menacingly.

“They usually are,” was Donnie’s sheepish reply.  “C’mon, let’s get upstairs before they come out.  They had to’ve heard the bike.”

It was a close thing.  Donnie had just managed to unlock the door at the top of the stairs and let Dave in when a shrill, nagging voice arose from the garden.

“Donald, is that you?” it demanded querulously, “Why aren’t you in bed?  We have church in the morning—you know we’re going to the early service!”

“Aw, I’ll be in soon, Ma,” Donnie called back, “I just wanna, um, finish up something real quick.”

“Well, I’m warning you—if you’re not up and dressed by eight, I’ll be sending your father for you.”

“Sure thing, Ma—I’ll be there.”

Dave smirked.  If there was one thing he could guarantee, it was that Donnie wouldn’t be present for the early service at church.

The boy brushed past him and flipped the light switch.  By the dim light of a small bedside lamp, Dave could make out a single room with sloping walls and a peaked ceiling.  In the space cut by the dormer was a king-sized bed with rumpled, cum-stained sheets; the coverlet was in a wad on the floor.  Next to the bed was the table with the lamp; it also held a dildo and a bottle of poppers.

On the far wall beyond the bed were two doors, both ajar.  One led to a half-bath, the other to an apparently empty closet.  The room was devoid of anything else except a rank smell of stale weed smoke and mansex.

“Hang on,” Donnie said suddenly as Dan entered the room.  Stepping past him, the teen slut locked the deadbolt, a complicated maneuver that involved engaging a small lever under the knob. 

“Just in case,” he said.  “They’ve never come up here, but Dad was made a deacon this week and is being officially presented in church tomorrow—I think they’re kinda antsy about it.”

Dave just grunted and slipped off his leather vest, revealing his massive pecs and jutting nipples in all their glory.  Donnie had opened his mouth to say something else, but the sight of the hardbodied alpha’s muscled, furry chest stopped him cold.  His jaw hung open for a moment, then snapped shut as he swallowed with a loud gulp.

“What’re you waiting for, faggot?” Dave barked.  “Get your clothes off and get on that fuckin’ bed.  I gotta load to drain and my balls are already boilin’ over.”

Again, Donnie flushed red.  No one had ever verbally abused him like this, and he was offended—but he could also feel the way it made his boycock pulsate.  With an eager grin, he took off his cap and tossed it in the corner, revealing a shock of unruly black hair.  He stripped off his t-shirt, his lithe teen body already slick with sweat—it was a warm night, and the room wasn’t air-conditioned.

After kicking off his Nikes, he quickly peeled down his expensive jeans, his long boycock leaping out and swaying in the air as soon as it was freed from its denim confines.  He was left standing in front of Dave wearing nothing but ankle socks and a leer.

Dave, in turn, had unzipped his fly and hauled out his enormous shaft, vein-wreathed and visibly throbbing.  As Donnie gaped at the huge tool, uncertain that his ass could handle such a gigantic member, the alpha calmly looked the boy over.

“Yeah, you’ll do,” he said calmly and punched the teen in the face.

Donnie cried out and reeled back, stumbling and falling against the bed.  Clutching his cheek where a deep bruise was already starting to spread, he stared up at Dave.  “What the fuck, dude?!?” he asked, his face clouded by disbelief and a touch of anger, but not fear.

Not yet.

“I was dead serious about needing to release my load,” Dave replied in an almost conversational tone, “And the only way you’re gonna milk my cum is to die on my dick. But first, you gotta suffer. You get it, cunt? The more pain you’re in, the more intense my orgasm. Buckle up, bitch, I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad you’re gonna blow a wad in sheer agony.”

Now the fear showed on Donnie’s face, crowding out the anger, but not the disbelief.  The adolescent slut simply couldn’t believe his ears.  Dave expected that.  Teenaged fuckmeat wasn’t able to conceive its own demise; that was why he preyed on it.  It kept fighting and struggling, working his shaft, right up to the moment it died.

“No, man—you-you’re joking,” the boy stuttered, “But this ain’t funny, dude.  Stop it.”

Dave kicked him, hard, the steel toe of his harness boot sinking deep into the punk’s flat belly.  Donnie exhaled violently with a loud “OOF!” and curled into a fetal position, clutching his stomach, and desperately gasping for air.

“Ya feelin’ me yet, asswipe?” Dave jeered, “No?  How about now?”

This time, the expertly-aimed kick struck Donnie’s back, right on the kidney.  It was enough to make the lithe teen straighten out.  Groaning in agony, he rolled face-up; in that position, he had an excellent view of the tread of Dan’s boot as the sadistic alpha raised his foot and stomped the kid’s chest.

The wet cracking sound as one of Donnie’s rib’s snapped was loud enough to be heard over every other noise in the room.  If the punk hadn’t already had so much on his mind, he might have noticed the sensation of Dave’s precum dripping onto his smooth skin like hot melted wax.

Even if he didn’t believe he was going to die tonight, Donnie was convinced by now that the stud he’d brought home—and with whom he’d locked himself in—was going to try to kill him and was definitely going to hurt him badly.  He needed to get out; he needed to get help.  His parents were just yards away.  There’d be consequences for revealing his sexual escapades, but he’d deal with that later if he could only reach them now.

For Dave, the faggot’s thoughts were as obvious as if he’d spoken them aloud.  The meat was gonna make a run for it; the meat always made a run for it. 

Fuckmeat was stupid; that was why it was so easy to hunt it down and slaughter it.

Dave decided to play with his fucktoy for a little.  He walked to the closet and peered in, giving the meat a chance to get up and bolt for the door.  It thought it was being quiet when it did so, but the jagged edges of the broken rib were lacerating internal tissue; its grunts and groans of pain made it easy to track its exact location without having to look directly at it. 

Dave only turned back when the faint thudding of its socked feet on the floor told him it was heading for the door.  Even then, he was in no rush.

Donnie reached the door in a state of intense fear.  He knew that if he couldn’t get out now, he probably wouldn’t be leaving the room under his own power later, whatever happened.  Tears ran down his cheeks as he twisted and yanked the doorknob, but the door refused to open.  Then, behind him, he heard the slow, steady tread of Dave’s boots as the sadist approached him.

On the verge of blind panic, the teen suddenly remembered the lock and fumbled with the catch.  The muscled psycho was coming closer and closer; he had to get it open—he had to, oh Christ oh holy fuck why wasn’t it opening—the lever!  Yes!

Just as Donnie disengaged the deadbolt, Dave’s hand clamped on his shoulder and spun him around, his heavy fist pistoning into the punk’s face with enough power to drive the teen into the wall next to the door.  Donnie’s head snapped back with enough force to leave a large dent where it caved in the sheetrock.  Stunned, the adolescent slipped to the floor, drooling out blood and one of his canine teeth.

“Ok, cunt, that’s enough foreplay,” Dave commented casually, “I’m ready to stick it up your ass now.”

Donnie was only vaguely aware that he was being dragged across the room. It was only when Dave clutched his throat and dead-lifted him into the air with one arm, cutting off his breath, that the slut came back to full consciousness. He’d never been choked before and it was absolutely terrifying.

But it only lasted a moment.  The muscle-bound stud tossed the boy onto the bed on his back like a rag doll, then climbed on himself, placing his hands on the teen’s firm, smooth thighs and roughly parting them.

“You’re gonna die soon,” Dave jeered, sneering down into the boy’s swollen face, “But first I’m gonna ream your fuckhole.  It’s time for you to learn that the only reason you exist is to be my cumdump.”

And with that, he remorselessly plowed his enormous pulsing shaft into the slutboy’s asshole, shoving it all the way home in a single ruthless balls-deep thrust.

Donnie’s sphincter was torn apart like a rubber band stretched beyond its limit.  There was no lube beyond Dave’s precum and his own blood; the billiard-ball-sized head of the alpha’s cock shredded his rectal lining and ground horrifically over his prostate.  Out of everything he’d endured so far, this was the worst; it was the most excruciating thing he’d ever experienced.

And somehow, it made his own dick swell and throb so intensely it ached.

Dave noticed it and grunted contemptuously.  “Fuckin’ faggots—y’all always piss and moan about gettin’ slapped around, but you little whores just fuckin’ love it rough, dontcha?”

Donnie didn’t love it; in fact, he was already so traumatized by the brutality that he was unable to speak.  Nothing in his useless upper-middle-class existence had prepared him for what he was enduring.  His only experience with violence had been in movies and video games—he associated it more with entertainment than actual physical pain.

The teen punk might have been too overwhelmed to verbally object, but his body had its own way to object, even if involuntarily.  With frantic, mindless energy, he began to claw at the hardbodied alpha.

Dave had wasted enough cunts to know the signs of meat about to lose its shit;he’d been leaning over the homo, so close the teen asswipe could smell the heady mix of sweat and abundant testosterone the powerful sadist gave off. Now he pulled back—not much, but enough to keep his face out of the teen’s frenetic reach.

His face, but not his body.  Within seconds, Donnie’s hands were grasping at Dave’s rock-hard pecs and dark body fur.  Digging into his chest, the little asswipe actually managed to draw the alpha’s blood.  Not a lot, but it didn’t take much to trigger the violent killer’s rage.

It happened in a flash.  With a vicious snarl, Dave drew back his fist.  Donnie’s eyes widened in sudden terror, but he had no time to do more than register the image of Dave’s bicep, bulging with power like a coiled spring, before the killer’s fist slammed into his face with the force of a speeding locomotive.

Pain tore through the unlucky whoreboy’s head, but even worse followed immediately.  In the next moment, Dave had grabbed Donnie’s right arm.  “You stupid fuckin’ piece of shit,” he growled, the bloodlust glittering in his eyes, “You ain’t ever gonna that again.  Yer gonna take my dick like a good piece of fuckmeat, then yer gonna die so your convulsions can milk my shaft.  You get that?  No, ya dumbass cunt?  Here, maybe this’ll teach ya!”

His handsome face contorted in a bestial mask as he wrapped his own powerful arm around the slut’s thinner one.  He gave a quick, vicious jerk and Donnie’s arm was suddenly bent ninety degrees in the wrong direction at the elbow.

The adolescent’s shriek was loud, echoing off the bare walls of the small room, but it wasn’t loud enough to completely cover the gristly cracking sound of a major bone shattering, so similar to that of the breaking of a live tree limb.  Donnie’s face had gone a pale gray except for the large dark rings that physical trauma had painted around his eyes.  His lithe body stiffened, going rigid with agony.

Dave loved it; the cunt’s sphincter might have been mangled but it was still intact enough to clench with pain, tightening around the base of Dave’s thick, massive shaft.  The violent sadist had managed to inflict the suffering on the fuckmeat without breaking his relentless ass-pounding tempo; the slut’s reaction to its salutary lesson only increased the alpha’s pleasure.

But Dave wasn’t done yet.  Like a jackhammer, his huge, heavy fist pounded the meat’s chest in the same spot that his boot had inflicted damage earlier.  The whoreboy’s broken ribs were driven deeper into his torso, the jagged ends shearing into his left lung and tearing it open.

Instantly Donnie’s screams became muffled, almost inaudible as his lung deflated.  His face developed a bluish tinge and he began to gasp like a dying fish.  His expression was one of sheer terror.

Dave grinned malevolently.  The meat was scared of being short of breath?  Worthless asswipe was gonna be in stark panic in a few seconds.

And that was gonna be hot.  The more it thrashed, the more it worked his cock like good fucktoy.

Despite his impaired respiration, Donnie soon found his voice again—what little was left of it.  All he could do was emit a keening noise, something like a high-pitched bleating that became louder and higher the more roughly Dave pounded his ass.  It was pissing the alpha off—he could already feel his massive ballsack starting to pucker as his potent semen began to seethe with eager heat.  He didn’t want to hear the meat whimpering and mewling as he got close to unloading.

“Aw, shut the fuck up!” he yelled in rage, slamming his fist repeatedly into the teen’s face.  The punk was really squirming about now, trying to get away from the hail of blows that the muscled sadist was raining mercilessly upon him, to no avail.  He was pinned to the bed by the killer’s hard body, impaled by his gigantic horsecock—

—on the same bed that he’d gotten fucked on the night before. The memory was made dim and fleeting by the maelstrom of suffering being inflicted on him; he could just recall that the boy was cute but wasn’t fucking him as roughly as he wanted…

…then Dave dragged him back to the present by breaking his nose.  But even through the pain and fear, Donnie was still aware of Dave’s raw sexual attraction and while the violent rape and assault weren’t conducive to eroticism—at least, from the whoreboy’s point of view—his dick responded instinctively. 

As the teenager’s pulsing member slid against Dave’s hard, flat belly, the wiry body fur abraded it like steel wool, increasing the boy’s pain—but his rod still left a clear trail of precum that matted his rapist’s hair.

Dave could feel it too.  With a loud grunt, he stopped beating Donnie, leaned forward and stared the directly into the homo’s swollen, terrified eyes.  “Ya ready for it, cunt?” he growled, “Ya ready to die?  It’s time to get it on, motherfucker!”

Then his hands clenched around the kid’s throat, strong as iron bands, and he began to squeeze. At the same time, he shifted slightly, digging the toes of his bike boots into the bed. He started to pump the teen’s fuckhole furiously, his powerful, rock-hard glutes flexing visibly inside his jeans.

Donnie’s immediate, involuntary reaction was blind panic.  He ceased to be a human being—he’d hardly been that to begin with, the useless piece of fuckmeat—and became an animal, scrambling frantically and vainly for escape from death.  He kicked and flailed frenziedly, his lithe, smooth legs wrapping around Dave’s waist with his feet in the air, toes curling in desperation.

The stupid punk was only adding to his own pain.  While his left hand clawed at his neck, futilely trying to pry away the alpha’s steely grip, his right arm jerked and flopped uselessly, each movement grinding the shattered ends of the bones against each other.  The boy was awash in a nightmarish sea of blood-red agony.

But within seconds, the nature of that agony began to change. It wasn’t that he could no longer feel the broken bones, or his bashed-in face; they just seemed to recede into the background as new, even more excruciating sensations came to the fore. Even the misery of having his windpipe slowly crushed took a back seat to the echoing, sledgehammer-like pounding in his skull and the burning, fiery pain in his already-damaged lungs; both were accompanied by an unbearable feeling of pressure.

This pressure was so intense it seemed to be forcing his eyes right out of its head.  The blackened lids had been swollen shut; now the bulging orbs popped them open.  And as red blooms of hemorrhages began to burst in the whites of the adolescent’s eyes, his tongue, already dark with congested blood, shoved its way past his split lips, lubed by a thick, steady stream of foamy drool that ran down his cheeks and chin.  

But the worst were the dicks—his and the alpha’s.  As his brain began to die, his nerve endings cruelly began to grow more sensitive.  His ravaged fuckhole felt like it was being reamed by a cactus the size of a baseball bat.  Yet somehow the pain in his own tool was even worse.  It throbbed with the same out-of-control tempo that his head and chest did, but it seemed to be even more intense and agonizing—a glassy, pulsating pain that clutched his balls like a bear trap and spread outward over his heaving, sweat-slick belly.

“Fuck yeah, get it,” Dave said, thickly and gutturally.  “Get my wad, you worthless piece a’ fuckin’ faggot shit.  Die on my shaft, you goddam cocksucker!”

For a moment, the pain in the meat’s throat became noticeable again.  The fucktoy’s brain was shutting down at a cascading rate, but there was still enough of it left to both feel and hear its esophagus collapse under the serial killer’s hands.  The loudest noise in the room was that of a huge styrofoam cup being crushed; the crackling sound was exactly what Dave had been waiting for—it was the end of the fuckmeat.

Or at least, close enough for the end for it fulfill its only real purpose on the planet and become the cumdump for a real male.  But even though Donnie, as Donnie, was brain-dead, the shuddering, convulsing meat still retained the ability to physically sense things.

The sheer hell of it was, the brain was so damaged it could only interpret its sensations as pain.

The eardrums could still pick up Dave’s cursing and jeers, but those vibrations went to a part of the fag’s brain that no longer functioned. It could feel Dave’s fist pounding on it, slamming into its chest, its jaw, its mouth. And it could definitely feel the continuous stream of potent virile manseed that spewed into its fuckhole—an excruciatingly searing pain as if its guts were being hosed by hot lava.

And then came the worst agony of all.  It could feel the entirety of its young, wasted life being ripped from its abused body, spurting out through its cock.  If it had been capable of thought, it would have been astonished at how badly an orgasm could hurt—but this was its mortal load, its deathwad. The last essence of its useless life actually was spewing out its cock.

There’d been a lot of life in the faggot for it to spew, too.  It shot a solid stream of spunk for nearly a full sixty seconds.  If it had survived, its balls would have been irreparably damaged.

Dave’s load lasted nearly as long, but he was stronger and more experienced.  Even so, he collapsed onto the shuddering corpse, spent, and lay there a few minutes as his rod continued to ooze and leak into the dead kid’s guts.  Finally catching his breath, he slowly extracted his still-erect shaft from the teen’s ass like a boring machine being pulled from a well and rose to his feet.

He was covered with sweat and needed to towel off, but first he wanted to remove the sticky boycum that was matting his chest hair.  He glanced around and instantly noticed that one of the meat’s socks had come off; the corpse’s toes were still curling slightly as its trashed nervous system continued to fire randomly.

It was barely big enough to satisfy his need; when he was done, it was thick and heavy with teen spunk.  Looking down at the meat’s congested face, Dave grinned and forced the cumrag sock into the kid’s mouth, shoving it past the blackened, protruding tongue.

He stepped into the bathroom and found some hand towels—there were no bath towels since it was only a half-bath.  It took three of them to wipe his own cum and sweat from his muscled body; when he was done, he jammed them into the toilet and flushed it, letting the water back up and overflow as a final “fuck you” to the privileged cocksucker and its family.  He tucked his dick back inside his jeans, retrieved his leather vest, and headed for the door.

His boots pounded heavily on the outside stairs as he headed down.  Even now, his massive rod was firm and pulsing.  Worthless faggot hadn’t been enough to satisfy him.  Fucking cunt.  He knew he’d need to find more meat soon.

Lights came on instantly in the house when the Harley roared to life.  Stupid homo was wrong about his parents getting to bed.  Even over the noise of the motorcycle, Dave could hear the mother’s hectoring voice issuing from the back yard.

“Donald, what on earth is going on?  That’s it; your father’s coming out there.  Henry!  Henry!  You need to go see what Donald is doing!”

Dave had no desire to spoil their surprise.  With a faint smirk that radiated pure evil, he flipped up the kickstand and pulled out of the driveway.

He was at the end of the block by the time slippered feet padded angrily up the stairs to the garage apartment and he’d made it to the main road by the time the screaming started.

He was on the highway, heading west and halfway home by the time sirens started heading towards the small room where the teenager’s badly beaten corpse lay, still quivering and oozing cum from its torn asshole.

6 thoughts on “Leather Dave and the Poor Little Rich Boy

  1. JWC

    Alpha Killer pronouns: he/him. Faggot fuckmeat pronouns: it/its. Clearly, snuffbait fagholes are not worthy of the same pronouns used by Real Men. Fuck, they are not worthy of the pronouns used to refer to dogs. I’d love to be in attendance at the church service the next morning, the whole congregation whispering about how the new Deacon’s pansy son was snuffed by some killer trick that it snuck into its parents’ home. If Dave were merciful, he should probably have snuffed the whole family to spare them the humiliation of knowing their faggot son had died on a Real Man’s dick, milking a killer’s nutjuice with its death throes.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I am REALLY starting to like Dave. This ditty has my balls boiling right now:

    Then his hands clenched around the kid’s throat , strong as iron bands, and he began to squeeze.  As the same time, he shifted slightly, digging the toes of his bike boots into the bed.  He started to pump the teen’s fuckhole furiously, his powerful, rock-hard glutes flexing visibly inside his jeans.

    That’s PURE AWESOME writing – the images in my mind this conjures. Thank you M3M for your continued great reads!

    Liked by 1 person

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