My father fell during the war - I was born in 1943 - and left us a small market garden, but I could glean nothing from his personal papers relating to...my mother's origins and nor could his solicitor suggest anything. Virginie's own mother also had a French name, and Virginie looked to me as though she could have been of North African origin - Moroccan, Algerian, Tunisian perhaps, but certainly not English. At age forty my mother Virginie was vivacious and shapely, 5 feet six inches in height. I felt a tongue licking up and down my semi-erect cock and then lips closing around the head moving slightly up and down."Mmh" I moaned.Having been on tour for the last couple of weeks waking up like this was not too unusual. My sleeplees brain however had forgotten where I was. When I finally opened my eyes my brain started working properly again."What the...?"I sat up, looked around and realized I wasn't in a hotel room or tour bus but in a studio in NYC. Right in front of me stood a young. I got into a tight mini skirt, stockings, gather belt, knee high boots and a low cut vest top fortunately for me it was a lovely summer’s evening. I applied red lipstick, sexy makeup, got into my car and started heading to a dogging spot in the area that I heard about in the past.God, was I nervous that first time. I remember walking from the car to the bench, my stomach churning like a washing machine, legs trembling while I imagined them all staring at me. There were already ten or eleven. His ability probably landed him in that Charger instead of a Crown Vic or an Impala like the rest. I began to toy with these cops because they had no idea that I had a turbocharged SVO motor under the hood. I would punch it to make it through a yellow light intentionally to let them see what I was working with. One day Bratton finally came up and asked me in the parking lot of the gas station what I had under the hood. We talked it up and laughed and had a good time there for a while. He.