Busses Suck: Difference between revisions
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It all started when she got on board my Greyhound bus. She was tall, blonde, busty, and wearing all leather, right down to her knee-high pumps. The studs on her eyes said trouble and the one on her tongue—something she casually flashed my direction—told me she was dangerous.
She took the pair of empty seats next to mine and I could feel her looking over toward me periodically. I
Although I tried my best, I could not stave off sleep forever. This connection was just another part in what had already been twenty sleepless—and otherwise uneventful—hours of bussing.
I awoke to find her undressing me, bending forward, to try and, well, all I will say is
Like I said, I am a survivor of a demon attack. I
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