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I handed him a beer and we sat silently for a while enjoying the calmness of the lake. “Sir?” he asked, breaking the silence, “what was in the p...uch that you’d handed your wife?” referring to the story I’d been telling him, of the first time I’d met my wife. “Inside the small satin pouch was a vibrating egg and a metal buttplug, also a note instructing her to insert them and return to the table.” I replied. “The egg was remotely controlled, of course the remote was in my possession” I added. . .----Examples.My first "Real" man was my father, and his manliness was asserted bycoming home drunk and beating his wife and daughter on a regular basis.As ashamed as I am to admit it, the happiest day in my young life waswhen he died from a stress induced heart attack when I was thirteen.Maybe the fact that he died while beating my mother so bad she requiredweeks of hospitalization was enough to salve any grief I might have knownotherwise.----My second "Real" man was this nice, sweet. Instead, the horny youngster ran the distance to the stables and to the stallion. The moon was climbing high in the sky, lighting every step of her feverish, lust-filled run.Micki arrived at Midnight's stall, breathless and flushed and panting."Oh, Midnight... I... I made it," she panted harshly, trying to catch her breath.The long run from her house had turned her on more and she felt her little pussy growing wetter and wetter with thick cuntjuice. She entered Midnight's stall and led the. It was like all the kisses I remembered, hot and passionate, and the last six years just melted away and I felt in my twenties again and still married to this man. Eventually he stopped his kissing and I was able to breathe.“What happened to you, Gianni, your sister-in-law told me you and Georgio were shot dead in Canada?”“We were all shot in a double by a rival group of runners who thought we was muscling into their business, including my brother, cousins and a friend of my brother’s, Alberto.
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