Her private confessor, the shy and withdrawn Father Reilly, found her insistence on self- punishment a bit “over the top” in secular terms, but he...allowed her to show him her bruises and marks of penitence even when they were in an embarrassingly private spot usually not displayed for male observation. Her flushed face and rapid breathing concerned him at such times, but he put it down to mortification at her sinful deeds. His flesh was just as weak as some of the younger nuns and his need for. “Look Paula, Lorraine, I want you to do some escort work,” Paula interrupted “prostitute.”“escort work, and maybe a little modelling. Fifteen hundred pounds each, per night.” John told them.Lorraine was stunned. That was seriously a lot of money. Money for doing what? Fucking a few guys, being taken out. For the last month they had been doing just that. Paula had been doing it for around a year, so why not get paid for it? They were both doing jobs that neither liked. Lorraine was due to go to. He lost all control now and fucked her mouth more furiously then he ever had done before, her fingers pressed deeper into his ass, seeking to massage his most intimate spot. She felt his sack tighten and his moans grew more desperate and she knew her actions would soon be rewarded with the taste of his bittersweet nectar. His cock glided in and out of her mouth, her fingers slid in and out of his tight ass, slurping and moaning sounds filled the room. He let out a deep grunt and forced his. There, in carved letters and red paint red ‘Camp Hattawata’. We made it. And we celebrated. ‘Onward to Camp Hattawata!’ We cried. By the time I pressed the gas petal to move on the road, a song was played at the radio called ‘Cars’ by Gary Numan. It was a catchy song, and my pals and I sang to it as we looked at the camp’s picturesque cabins and trailers. We took a look at a three story lodge with bold red letters called simply ‘Warehouse’. This camp even has a beautiful, pristine lake. We.