Priya Anjali Rai Meet Superman.

They confirmed the numbers, I had already handed over the ticket when I remembered my warrents. Just fuck! I broke a sweat, I knew I had no less that a dozen outstanding. Stupid bastards kept releasing me on recog, ordering me to appear. Sure, like I would do that. Too late. I stood there nervous, each time the door opened I was sure it would be cops. But finally the clerk came back, handed me a check, I got the hell out of there. I had to open a bank account to cash the check, I just filled out the forms and they deposited the check, big smiles all around by everyone. I left the money in the bank, I knew better than to try and carry any money on the streets I lived on. Plus I had had enough of those streets anyway, I bought a newspaper, hunted the ads. I found an apartment in a nice section outside of the city, checked it out and rented it. It was amazing, it had a TV set and a big soft bed, appliances and a shower. I was living like a damned King! I bought a little red Mazda sports. Semen is crusted in her hair and all over a flat stomach decorated with a belly button chain. There’s so much of it that for a moment I think it’s melted wax.I feel sick, brain dredging back up all the shit I tried to forget. Shit the naive little white girl begged for. Shit I was far too willing to grant.I roll over into a fifth of Jack. I take a swig. Taste pussy first. Whiskey last.I see visions of the bottle wedged inside her, familiar red hair wiggling between her thighs.I look wildly around the dimmed room, hoping she’s here, praying isn’t. I don’t see anything. Hear anything. It’s all just empty silence and dim purple light. Which suits me just fine.-I dress in a jumble, limbs as slurred up as my drunken muttering.Through thin curtains, cracks of lightning jar me up good, get me stumbling back onto the bed, face planting her coked up cunt again. I can’t help the addict lick over that purple fuzz, or the rushing of blood back into my prick. Girl got that pretty pink gash dreams.
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