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But Stella didn't mean to suck him off then; she pushed him back upon the couch and placed one knee on each side of him, still fondling his hard cock as she smiled down at him, then over at her husband and Regina.The other woman eased her furry crotch down upon Bill's upright prick, and as the flanged head slipped into her pussy lips, she said: "Look, Chuck--isn't this what you wanted to see-- Bill fucking your wife?" Yeah," Chuck grunted, and Regina felt his cock reaching blindly for the entrance of her labia, searching and prodding for the slippery cleft so he could also fuck.She guided it in for him, turned so that she was under his body--as Stella had done earlier that day, to fuck young Dale--and so they could both watch the scene on the other couch. Only a few feet separated them, only a short distance between the two men and the women they were beginning to fuck. The fun part was that the wives and husbands didn't match, that technically they should only be screwing their. Roger noted her sharp intake of breath and he slipped his hand more firmly across the back of her neck, kneading the tender flesh. His fingertips pressed into the sensitive spot he'd found earlier and his sex grew another inch when she shivered once more, this time in pleasure and not nervousness.Joyce saw her sister's wiggle and even caught her heated glance in the mirror that was directed at both her and Roger. She watched her sister's eyes and knew that her husband was doing what she'd told him to do earlier.They'd discussed the evening events in their bedroom after their much needed and very active shower. She'd told him things that Abigail had confided in her long ago when Abbey and her husband were having problems. He knew he would do his best to fulfill those needs.Roger's fingers played with the tendrils of blonde curls, curls that were darker than his wife's, but soft and welcoming just the same. His other hand moved to Abigail's left thigh and he placed it there, leaving it.
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It was Friday night, it had been a long week, she’d had a few glasses of wine, and with the Indian Summer weather, the combination of heat and alcohol had just taken her away to dreamland. I was hopeful that she was sedated enough to get her to the car without her catching a whiff of my many, many maritally-objectionable aromas, all of which either came from Amber or were caused by her. I needed to get her to the car. What happened after that, what Amber meant by us being “at home” that night “later”, what I’d say if Cindy came fully awake and breathed me in, I didn’t know. First things, first, I thought. Get to the car. Get to the car. Get to the car.That thought, however, was interrupted by another. It was a thought of Amber, straddling my right leg, looking up at me from her thin, freckled, flat-footed five-foot-one-inch frame, and pissing. Then a thought of her adding my last name to her first name and producing what she’d soon be called. Then, one of her telling me.

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