It was a gory sight and one female journalist from the local print paper fainted dead away on the dusty ground with her undies showing her liking of s...lk fabric against her delicate hindquarters.Sam had to confess that he found that particularly stimulating despite the picture of the dead agent in his mind and the scent of his nasty demise in his nostrils.After careful questioning, Sam was able to determine that the reservation-jumping band of renegade Indians had forty-seven males, eleven. But no ... it turns off to the left! Where is it driving her again? It finally marks a stop in front of the assembler: a series of articulated arms, mounted on rails, intended to put complex parts together. An idea runs through her mind, but ... no, it cannot be? The articulated arm closest to her quickly answers her inner question: it stands up sounding like a hydraulic cylinder, and its four ends, which are more or less the size of human fingers, close on her breast, and begin to knead it. A. You see I was eighteen at the time. I had just flunked out of my first semester at MIT where I was on full scholarship. Honestly, I flunked out because I didn't go to class didn't do the work and didn't study. What did I do? Partied, played computer games and read Internet stories. My father didn't know about my failure to go to class until I received my grades in December. Until then he was proud of the grades I told him I was about to get. I told him I was had almost straight A's. When he saw. His eyes were red and swollen and my clit hardened in its cage. Being used, having superior males explain in great detail why you are being used as a sex object flicks a switch in my inferior brain and puts me completely at the level of where I should be in pleasing my black Masters. They are Gods. They are far superior to any white person on the planet. Listening to Master and his friends and their stories of the latest conquests, seeing the amount of white sissies knelt or serving while the.