GCAVixens: Ricky Johnson's Little Arsehole

Brazzers

Ricky Johnson, Gal Ritchie Pic(s)

The worn leather of the driver’s seat groaned in protest as Ricky Johnson shifted his weight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he navigated the rain-slicked, anonymous streets. Gal Ritchie sat perfectly still in the passenger seat, the silence between them a dense, living entity fed by years of shared history and unspoken grievances. He could feel her judgmental gaze boring into his profile, a silent accusation that he was, as always, taking the most convoluted route possible. The wipers beat a frantic, useless rhythm against the downpour, mirroring the frantic thumping of his own heart against his ribs. He knew she considered him a monumental fool, a “little arsehole” trapped in a man’s body, perpetually failing to meet the world’s simplest expectations. A sudden, violent spray from a passing truck lashed the windshield, and he flinched, a reaction that drew a barely perceptible sigh from Gal. This entire miserable journey felt like a perfect metaphor for his life: lost, storm-tossed, and stuck with a witness who despised the very sight of him. He chanced a glance her way, catching the sharp, unforgiving line of her jaw silhouetted against the neon blur of a passing bar sign. The title she had bestowed upon him, “Ricky Johnson’s Little Arsehole,” echoed in his mind, no longer an insult but a simple, stark statement of fact. He pressed the accelerator, pushing the old car forward into the gloom, two souls locked in a mobile prison of their own making.