Part 2 of 3.
In the late 1800s, after an unfortunate night of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a beast had bitten Agatha. When she had discovered the hunger, she left her husband and children to become a stowaway on a ship to America. Agatha's memory of her time in the Scottish Highlands faded with every year. Her name had once been something else, but she no longer remembered it, and Agatha was the name of a heroine in some novel she read years ago. Agatha had brought her mother's textiles with her to America to remind her of where she began, but the sentimental pieces of her life had become mere cloth, so she fashioned a functional dress out of her mother's red tartans to commemorate her hunting ritual. The color and pattern disguised stains of splatters and sprays from carotid arteries of her prey.
Agatha's dress top remained at her waist as she led John down the trail. She did not need the lamp to see, but she held it ahead of her for show. She swiftly made her way to the little shack down the trail, with John in tow and holding her hand. Even though her back was turned, John could see Agatha's breasts bouncing like balls from side to side in the moonlight ahead of him. He wanted to squeeze them and put his dick in between them. They were perky and firm - a rarity with breasts the size of Agatha's.
"Home, sweet home," sang Agatha. She stopped at a lean-to encased by a blanket of darkness and placed her lamp in the corner. The lean-to had three walls, a pointed roof, and an open front. Angela sat on the edge of the floor with no wall and let her legs dangle. She looked up at John mischievously and thrust her hand down her fallen dress to play with herself and grabbed a breast with her other hand. She twisted her nipple beneath her finger and moaned. John threw off his dirty t-shirt and moved closer. He lifted Agatha's dress and the bottoms of her thighs to pivot her ass up to allow their groins to unite again. Her bushy pussy rubbed against his shorts. Her arms stretched behind her with her hands planted on the floor, emphasizing her chest. "Agatha..." John wanted to freeze the moment in time and drift away with her, "you are incredible." John's musk grew stronger with his escalating arousal.
Agatha sat up and pulled down John's shorts to reveal his fully hard, girthy cock. She grinned, leaned down, and popped the tip in her mouth. John moaned as she swirled her tongue around the underside of his shaft and fondled his balls with her free hand. He lifted his hands to guide her head, but she grabbed his wrists and pinned them behind his back while she continued to suck his cock. A man's blood tasted the richest on the precipice of an orgasm, and through practiced motions, the arousal aroma activated her palette before the main course. Agatha had learned how to elevate the level of excitement getting to the point of culmination. The time was near.
