Chapter Eight
Boswick’s Satisfaction
To say that she was experiencing multiple orgasms would have been, to use the cliché, a gross understatement. Dori’s riding clothes were soaked. Sweat ran from every pore, dripping down her body, pooling in the leather riding boots and spattering onto the concrete cellar floor. Samson shook, rattled, jumped, bucked and rolled endlessly. His pace was varied. At times he was like a wild, unbroken steed, fleeing from the possibility of confinement in a corral. At other times he was simply and methodically trying to shake the mounted and impaled girl off his mechanical back. His bucks were slow enough to cause Dori to slide up the impaling phalluses, hang there in momentary suspension and plunge back down their roughened slippery surface to slam her bisec
