Scratch where it itches

We had a nice rhythm going. Maybe it was inspired by that noisy dryer, sounding off the other side of the plastic curtain…whooom….whooom…whooom. Her head was thrown forward and her back was arched. I could see tiny blue letters behind each ear. They were little tattoos, one was NY, Yankee-style, the other was LI, Long Island style. Slats was impressing me more each second, especially how smooth and gripping being inside her felt.
The skin on her back was smooth, too, no pimles, hair, or rough spots. “Not a scratch on her”, Rudy would say. She reached back and patted my upper thigh and said, “Good Doggie…good pooch”. I had to crack up, and she chuckled too, but we didn’t miss a stroke.