When Tracy appeared to be falling asleep Brent carried her to the kitchen table, placing her on her back. There was no need really to suck her nipples...hard, they were erect like pencil ends. But he licked them just the same and heard her whisper, ‘Good boy.’ Brent licked his way down to an already moist orifice and his tongue entered it greedily and it wormed and lapped Tracy into what appeared by her groans to be a very satisfying orgasm. Taking a few minutes for Tracy to revive, they grabbed. Her nipples had already begun to extend and he spread lather over them just as thoroughly as he’d spread it elsewhere. ‘Taking a bath never felt this good before,’ Kristin said. ‘Mitch!!! Ohhhhh!!!!!’ she murmured when he started sliding the washcloth over one of her breasts. He attended to that breast thoroughly, then he moved his attentions it’s mate. ‘Oh, God, Mitch!’ Kristin moaned, ‘You’re turning me on again! I don’t believe it!’ When he finished with her breasts, Mitch began washing her. It still amazes me how, with my failing memory from years of debauchery and drug abuse, I can still recall the most minute details of Woodstock. 1969 was an awesome year for memories, or so I'm told: the moon landing, Vietnam war, and its protests, bra-burning, which would never happen at 2019 prices, and that gargoyle, Nixon, in the White House. Also, Sharon Tate had been murdered by the infamous Manson family the week before the festival. I still remember vividly that August morning, climbing. ‘Agnes Grundlemire?’ The sound of her real name stilled her feet and chilled her heart. The noose tightened. Truth had finally caught up. She wanted to deny it, but the lie wouldn’t come. Instead, she scanned the confusion ahead, searching for a glimpse of Tom. Chief Willie grabbed her firmly by the elbow and forced her back the way she came. ‘Where were you tonight, Agnes?’ ‘Don’t call me that. I go by Hannah, now.’ Chief Willie stopped and spun her, face to face. ‘Okay, Hannah, where were.