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Tom has a question for you dear. "You like it in your ass ?" There is only one answer Sheila. And we have heard you utter it more than once. "Yes", you say. Then Tom begins to stroke. He buggers you darling. He buttfucks you because he loves you. Thank him Sheila, thank him for pillaging you, squeal for him darling, let him know how much you enjoy his fevered attention.
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No pastels my darling. Wear black or red. Dark bold colors, bold like you. When you bend over the kitchen counter and lift your chemise, we want to see that contrast between the the dark, sheer fabric of your skimpy outfit, and the porcelain glow of your shapely bottom. Let us gaze and take in the beauty of your legs, make our gaze travel over your calves and thighs. Cause our glance to rise, until we are focused on the cleft between your cheeks.
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She can hear their voices: Darrell, Scott, Charles, and her husband Tom. They fell silent as she walked into the room. But it didn't take long for them to find their tongues and to offer their compliments to her poise and beauty. Sheila thanked them for their flattery, lowered her gaze, and said: "Who takes me first tonight?" Darrell stroked the bulge in his pants, smiled, and said: Get the lube darling, I'll be your first tonight, and I have sodomy sublime on my mind."
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A woman's place is in the kitchen. So a male chauvinist pig would say, LOL. I bet Sheila is a good cook. I can see her, over the stove, whipping up delicious treats for her admirers. Canapes, hor de oeuvres, little salads, crudités and nice cold glasses of pinot gris. Then, before the visitors arrive, into her bedroom to change into something sheer. Something clingy, stockings, sensible heels and just a touch of perfume behind her ears. She spins around in front of a mirror, and laughs. A throaty laugh, as she admires her figure. "Not too bad", she says to herself, as she smiles and brushes back a stray lock of hair.
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