Let’s play Granny and the Indian Chief. Being of Cherokee blood myself, I can joke about Indians without disrespect. I have this fantasy about you as an Indian warrior. Young, strong, virile. Able to capture the heart and ravage the pussy of any maiden you choose. Indian braves didn’t have to date a woman. They were beasts who took their lust out on the nearest outlet, be it a young girl or an elderly woman. You enjoyed the right to sow your seed deep in an unwilling vagina, impregnating her with your sperm.
When I was captured as a young woman, no Indian man had ever seen tits like mine. They were seen as mystical objects of Indian folklore. This gave me special priviledges of my own. Even as a grandmother, no man would turn me away if I beckoned. He believed that I had the ability to steal his essence.
You were one of my braves. I crawled into your teepee that night, as you clenched your eyes shut. I reached under your loincloth, feeling your tomahawk hardening. You gasped as my mouth came down on your warstick, engulfing it, pulling it into my hot mouth. I bobbed on it, licking your balls, as you moaned in pleasure and in fear. It only took minutes until you were pouring your man juice deep in my throat, making my own pussy gush. I leaned over you and whispered in your ear. “Later. I shall ride you like a stallion.” I took your finger and pushed it deep in my sloppy old pussy, and then to your mouth, making you taste me. I felt you shudder beneath me as your cock began to rise again. I howled at the moon with the power I knew I had. It was time to move on to another teepee.
