Twokindsofcolor
New Member
Sammy Perkins waited outside the gates of Nevada State Prison. He looked up at the free desert sky, and cursed himself for being forty-three years old with nothing to show for it. He thought of how the dumb ass robbery of an old man had robbed him of five years of his life. Because he didn’t abide by the rule of prison life, and kicked ass whenever he could, parole was denied. He had done the whole five years. The only thing he owned, besides the personal crap in the white sack at his feet, was a worthless ranch house on the outskirts of Las Vegas. His father left it to him after he died last year. It made Sammy feel good when he referred to his old man as a dead pile of scum.
He kicked at the sandy soil and picked up his sack. He thought if his wife Roberta didn’t show up within the next ten minutes, he would beat the hell out of her whenever she did. He went closer to the edge of the road where he saw a car coming. When it was close enough for him to recognize it, he smiled and stuck his thumb out.
A brown Mustang pulled up alongside him. Roberta jumped out and ran to him. In one hoist, she was in his arms with her legs wrapped around his waist. Sammy dropped his sack and pressed her body to his, feeling the firmness of her nipples. The hunger of his mouth sought hers, kissing her hard.
“You’re free as a bird, baby,” she said, messing up his hair. “Free as a damn bird.”
During the drive he kept looking at Roberta, blond hair dyed jet black, roots showing, pierced nose with a silver stud that stuck out like bad acne. She wore a flimsy pink and white short dress, black leather jacket, and knee-high boots. She was thirty-nine and using desperate tricks to try and hide the fact of going on forty. He reached and slid her dress higher. He wanted to see her thighs and panties. He tried to play between her legs, but she hit his hand.
He kicked at the sandy soil and picked up his sack. He thought if his wife Roberta didn’t show up within the next ten minutes, he would beat the hell out of her whenever she did. He went closer to the edge of the road where he saw a car coming. When it was close enough for him to recognize it, he smiled and stuck his thumb out.
A brown Mustang pulled up alongside him. Roberta jumped out and ran to him. In one hoist, she was in his arms with her legs wrapped around his waist. Sammy dropped his sack and pressed her body to his, feeling the firmness of her nipples. The hunger of his mouth sought hers, kissing her hard.
“You’re free as a bird, baby,” she said, messing up his hair. “Free as a damn bird.”
During the drive he kept looking at Roberta, blond hair dyed jet black, roots showing, pierced nose with a silver stud that stuck out like bad acne. She wore a flimsy pink and white short dress, black leather jacket, and knee-high boots. She was thirty-nine and using desperate tricks to try and hide the fact of going on forty. He reached and slid her dress higher. He wanted to see her thighs and panties. He tried to play between her legs, but she hit his hand.
