After about 5 minutes his dick was pistoning steadily into the dirty wife’s face and Cindy was gagging like a true cock-slut. “Thwack! Thwack!! Th...ack!!” the wet music of their throat-fucking rang out around the room as dick banged tonsils. Cindy frigged her clit furiously with one hand while grabbing Kwame’s hip and raking her nails across his skin with the other. Jim sat on the couch in awe as he jerked himself, his erection already hard and ready for a second round. He knew this kind of. Cavindish not have any shrimp for us tonight though. Mrs. Graves eat last one. Maybe when she have big party. I always like Mrs. Cavindish?s kitchen when big party over,? she said, walking away and leaving an open door. I was stunned. What had she said? That Mrs. Graves ate the good food, and left us with peanut butter sandwiches? That?s fucking crazy, I told myself, my stomach rumbling again. I felt a headache coming on, and fumbled through the drawers, thankful for finding a bottle of. Eventually, I fell back to sleep. Only to have dreams where people were talking to me and I couldn’t understand them. Their voice sounded like several over laid tracks saying the same thing yet, with a watery quality. Everything else was normal. I could almost make out some of the words but not quite.-scene change-My wife and I were at some type of modern monastery doing some type of retreat and we were waiting our turn to enter our individual or joint cells that point was unclear and a guide. He read the article and then looked at me. Read the article again and looked at me.“Who wrote this?” he asked.When I told him I had, he said, “Wow. Most of the stuff I get from high schools is garbage and looks like something an eight year old would write. This is really professional.”That was my introduction to one of the most influential men I’d ever meet in my life. Richard “Dink” Jones was the editor and publisher of The Dispatch. (And in case you are wondering, “Dink” was the name for a.