We fuck on the Vespa. Greg tugs my jeans around my ankles, and presses me against Mrs. Schmidt’s garage. The one with the pink handle. The aluminum is chilly against my neck and paint flakes fall in my hair, white specks like dandruff. His arms are train tracks, shaking as he holds me up, but the thought of falling never occurs to me. He breathes into my ear. A tickle of words I can’t make out. His lips turn salty.

He pulls out as he starts to cum and it drips down my leg.

Two Dobermans ram against the fence.

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