Let me start with a typical New York story. Nothing. I guess I would need to call the super. I gagged at the taste and tried to spit them out, but he jammed them deeper. I had found my goal – make him cum, and end this night as quickly as possible. The tears streamed down my face, and my nose began to run as drool poured from my mouth. He was sloppy with his work, and it was no different with his snooping. He continued a little while more, then pulled his fingers out and told me to stand up. He poked his sausage-sized fingers in there, trying to start lubrication. I paused outside 4A and fumbled in my purse for the keys. He licked harder, probing the slight gape, and I arched my hips up to meet him. If I said no, it was almost certain that he would rape me, then god-knows-what. Much to my surprise, though, I felt his tongue plow into my wounded ass. Now, in theory a live-in super is a great thing: if something breaks or you’re locked out, you just
