I had to adjust the waist cincher, because when I bent to sit it bunched up around my stomach. I reset it just below my chest, causing a bit of ext...a skin to push up out the top, which had me readjusting the bra again.. I was attaching the garters to the hose after I had caressed them up my smooth legs, when L came back into the room. She was holding her black corset and seamed black stockings."Assist me, slut-bitch," was all she said.I quickly went to her side and on my knees to help. It only took the hint of a suggestion on her part to lead him to divest her of her garments and press her down into a fully submissive “all fours” position on the white fluffy carpet. After that, he forced her to take his oversized length for an extensive period of time from behind pushing her beyond the point of no return and so far down the road of depraved enjoyment that she could only drool onto the carpet and hide her face in her elbow in utter shame.After that exhausting exhibition,. Suddenly, she threw her drink into my face and screamed, “THAT’S FOR FUCKING MY HUSBAND YOU WHORE!” I heard the collective gasp of the women around me, and I knew what people were thinking. I grabbed a napkin and attempted to wipe the drink from my eyes as I said, “Lady, unless your husband is Robert Falcone, you have the wrong woman.” “SO YOU ARE DENYING IT?” she shrieked. “Yes!” I exclaimed. “Besides, I probably don’t even know who your husband is.” “My husband is Peter Miller.” Well. Even before the hand on her behind went down into her pants, she was getting horny. Knew that she had to submit to them.“Please..” she said In a weak voice, closed her eyes, but kept on stepping. They began to lift her shirts up, over her head, into a mess around her wrists. A little like being tied. There were hands on her breasts, outside the tight, day-glo green sports-bra. There was another between her buttocks. The knot that held her sweatpants were being untied.“The bitch is on.
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