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Subject: {ASSM} STORY: "A Husband's Journal" (cuck inter slut wife)
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Date: Thu, 12 Jul 2007 18:10:01 -0400
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courtesy http://cuckoldnation.org

A Husband's Journal
  (cuck inter slut wife)

When a friend of my wife's told me about this newsgroup and the "wife 
slut" genre of stories offered here, I thought he had to be kidding. You 
can't imagine how much peace it gave me to see that there are other like 
couples like my wife and I. I'd imagined we were virtually alone in our 
kink. Instead, we have a place to share our fun.

I guess, after a lot of lurking and reading, our story falls more into 
the sub-group of tales dealing specifically with inter-racial 
experiences. We're both caucasian, but my wife rarely fucks a man - 
other than myself - who's not of african heritage.

Helen and I live and act like the highly educated professionals we are 
about ninety percent of the time. I'm a cosmetic surgeon in a large 
medical clinic, and she's a physician's assistant for another doctor in 
the same complex. We're raising two healthy, well-adjusted teenaged 
kids. We attend all the right parties, support all the right causes. But 
the way we spend that other ten percent of the time would have our 
colleagues and neighbors shunning us, if they knew.

As I write this, Helen is getting ready for a date. Due to our busy 
schedule, it's the first in three weeks. We're both so excited we've 
been fucking like mink for the last four days. Mike, her newest 
boyfriend, called her at the office Tuesday and asked her to go dancing 
Saturday. Unlike most of her dates, on this one I have to stay home. The 
parts of the city he wants to take her to aren't very safe for me, 
invisibly trailing along like the voyeur I am. Besides, every once in a 
while, the sheer torture of having to wait for her to come back to me is 
the most exquisite foreplay I can imagine.

She looks even more gorgeous than usual. The emerald green cocktail gown 
hugs her every curve like a snug glove, but the looser skirt allows her 
plenty of room to dance, one of her more socially acceptable passions. 
Her sleek legs gleam under nude hose, and her three inch heels make them 
seem even more spectacular. Her rich brunette hair hangs freely, arcing 
down toward her perfect little 32B breasts like arrows pointing toward 
her awakened nipples. In her deep brown eyes is a raw need I only fuel 
when pump the fresh sperm into her pussy while we wait for Mike.

He's huge. I'd forgotten just how big a man Mike is. He was a first 
string defensive tackle when he played college football, and is still as 
solid now as he was four years ago in his playing days. He dwarfs Helen 
- even at the five-eight she is in her heels. I swear he had to turn 
sideways to get through the front door. And he's equally big where 
Helen's interests lie, too.

To me, he's always coolly polite. When we talk, it's like two 
businessmen at the country club, and he's taking my wife away to a 
charity auction. And, all the while we both know that within a few 
minutes or hours, he'll be pounding her pussy, stretching her with a ten 
inch long cock so fat she can barely get two fists around it. I'm sure 
he's not trying to make me uncomfortable. My guess is that it's his 
"honkey" face, not the one he wears at home. Helen has said much the 
same thing - that, even when they're alone, even while she has her legs 
wrapped around his waist and they're both screaming as they cum, that 
there's a distance between them. I think that intrigues her, adds even 
more excitement to her adultery.

When she called last night to tell me she wouldn't be home til morning, 
twenty-twenty hindsight tells me I should have known something out of 
the ordinary was happening. It was unusual, but not unheard of for her 
to spend the night with the man she was seeing. Maybe I should have 
heard the stress in her voice, or something pregnant in her pauses. At 
least then I'd have been more prepared for what happened, even though I 
wouldn't have been able to prevent it - had I wanted to.

How to phrase it? She left looking like my beautiful, classy, horny wife 
leaving on the arm of her lover. She came back looking like a 
streetcorner whore after a long night of tricks. Gone was the modestly 
alluring green gown. In its place was a deep scarlet minidress, matching 
mesh hose, and skyscraper heels. Her gently waved hairstyle had been 
transformed into a curly brown cloud. She swayed seductively, but 
tiredly, into the kitchen, where I was sipping coffee. I was stunned, 
but instantly aroused, as well.

She told me the whole story while I fucked her like a madman. Mike had 
told her, the moment they were in his car, that what she'd worn was all 
wrong. Too white, he'd said. When she asked him to explain, he said he'd 
show her instead. He stopped at a mall, ushered her into a store staffed 
entirely by beautiful, exotically dressed black women. He told them he 
wanted his piece of white tail fixed up for a night on the town. Instead 
of being offended by being treated like a cheap bauble, Helen said she 
got excited. The black women treated her with the same callous attitude, 
like she was just some worthless white tramp the big black man had 
picked up somewhere.

She modelled three scanty outfits before Mike approved the tiny, unlined 
red dress. She was sure the clerks could all smell her pussy, and there 
was no way they could have missed the way her rock hard nipples poked 
through the thin fabric. It was when they were on their way out, with 
Helen clinging to Mike's arm because of her uncertainty in the stiletto 
heels, that she realized there was nothing extrordinary about her 
minidress. She was clad just as the four women in the store were.

In the car, she teased her hair after he told her to do something with 
it. All the way to the bar, he fondled her thigh, tickled her cleft, 
toyed with her breasts, and told her how hot she looked, how he couldn't 
wait for all his friends to see what a hot bitch she was. He told her to 
keep her left hand on his cock so she'd know how she was effecting him. 
He brought her to the edge of orgasm several times, but didn't let her 
go over. He liked to watch her pant, he said, liked the way her solid 
little tits moved around under the dress, liked the way she kept her 
lips wet and parted, like she was dreaming about sucking his cock.

She was, she admitted. Dreaming about that and more. His words echoed, 
seemed amplified, resonated in her erogenous zones like massive gongs. 
She felt like she was hypnotized - and longed only to fall more deeply 
under Mike's spell. Sparks ignited her nipples as they slid against the 
slinky fabric of her sleazy little dress. Her red garters were welts 
across her bared thighs. Her slick core pushed into his caressing fingers.

By the time they got to the bar, she was already begging him to fuck 
her, or let her fuck herself with her hand - anything that'd make her 
cum. He chuckled and jerked her to him, pinning her arms against her 
sides. His kiss was a brutal tongue fuck of her lips.

What she said next had the force of a quote: "You're acting like a 
fucking slut. I like that. Think with your cunt tonight, baby, and I'll 
show you the best time you've ever had."

With that, he'd taken her into the first of three stops they made that 
night. The clientele was universally black, except for herself and two 
other women. One was a redheaded singer in the blues band, the blonde 
obviously just someone's date. Both were drop-dead gorgeous and wore 
clothes even more risque than Helen's. Most of the eyes - male and 
female - in the bar seemed to track them. Men and a few women stared 
with lust. The rest glared enviously. And Helen saw that she was the 
brunt of many gazes, herself.

Mike treated her like a prized, inanimate possession. A life-sized 
Barbie Doll with a wet cunt and hard nipples. And that was exactly how 
she'd felt, and she loved it. Her ordered drinks without consulting her. 
He chose a table, picked her chair. And his hands never left her. He was 
always touching her somewhere - flattening her tit to his upper arm and 
gripping her ass cheek while they walked. Under the table, her legs fell 
apart as he pushed her panties into her parted slit with two fingers.

He told her to watch the other two white girls. The blonde was dancing. 
The music was a low, slow wail. She clung to her man, dry humping him, 
long red nails gripping the back of his neck. When she pulled away from 
his kiss, her smeared lipstick reminded Helen of blood. The couple 
vanished shortly after the song ended. The blonde re-appeared, dancing 
with someone else, an hour later.

The redhead was shorter and more voluptuous. She wore a green sequined 
tank top which barely contained her mammoth globes. The black leather 
slacks fit like skin. As she moved, with the grace of a gazelle in the 
thigh high fetish boots, Helen sometimes saw the shape of her pussy 
lips. Her makeup, especially her eyes, was ornate.

Mike made Helen tell him what she was seeing, fondling her all the 
while. As she told him, he brought her closer and closer to orgasm, 
finally giving her the release she was nearly mad for. She gripped the 
table edge and shuddered. Anyone watching cetainly knew what was 
happening. Mike put it into whispered words for them all. "The little 
white slut's cumming."

The second place was a strip club. The dancers were all white, the 
patrons all black. The girls were all quite obviously whores, dependent 
upon a different dance for the bulk of their livelihood. Mike said 
nothing, and appeared to ignore her. He whistled and shouted obscenities 
at the strippers - with his hand back in my wife's throbbing pussy. She 
saw that he was attracted to the raunchiest of the dancers, the ones who 
wore more makeup and kinkier outfits. Pure and innocent didn't interest 
him, nor did nurses or athletes. Sluts. That what he liked. That's what 
he called her. That's what he wanted her to be. And she was so totally 
lost in what she was feeling that she knew that's what she was. She came 
again. This time, she grabbed his wrist with both hands and humped his 
fingers. She leaned forward and hissed at him. "Watch, honey. Your 
cunt's cumming again. Cumming good."

He chuckled again, with condescention, though not cruelty. "So you think 
you're as hot as those other girls?" He broke her grip on his wrist, 
forced one of her hands onto the swelling in his slacks. "You think you 
deserve my big black cock?"

She squeezed his thick rod, slid her hand up and down his length, and 
nodded as seductively as she could. "I'll fuck you blind," she told him. 
"I'll suck you dry. I'll let you do anything to me you want to."

His test for her was taking her virgin ass. All she did was ask her if 
he wanted to fuck it right there in the bar.

An hour later, it was a done deal in the back seat of his car. It wasn't 
brutal. He made sure she wanted it with every fiber of her being before 
gently entering her thoroughly lubed hole. She felt ripped apart, but 
was so entranced by the utter depravity of what was happening in that 
parking lot, with the windows down, that she began cumming long before 
Mike did and stopped only after he'd softened and pulled out of her sore 
hole.

And then it'd been off to the third stop. She was only mildly surprised 
when the bar was in the middle of a block devoted to porn shops and 
adult theaters. The streets thronged with hookers of every shape, color 
and age imaginable. They eyed her with the look of a female panther 
sizing up competition. With cum dripping from both her cunt and asshole, 
her teased hair tangled by passion, she felt a sort of kinship to them. 
She let her ass sway, felt the sleazy slickness on her thighs, and 
cupped Mike's ass just like he was holding hers.

After a single quick drink, he said he was going next door for some 
action. She scrambled behind him and asked him what he meant. He 
stopped, turned, and told her there was usually a white bitch in the 
booth section of the bookstore giving head to anyone who wanted her.

She knew what he was saying, and nodded her head. "Let's go."

There hadn't been any other girl, nor a line of guys. But Helen sucked 
Mike in a tiny room with a porn movie flickering on the tv until he 
spewed cum all over her face.

With the cum still wet on her skin and dress, he'd led her back onto the 
street, back to the car. She'd called me from a phone booth before going 
back to his apartment. There he'd fucked her dry, through so many 
orgasms she couldn't tell when one ended and the next began.

It's ten a.m. Saturday, two weeks later. Our daughter, Laurali, is 
watching her favorite movie. The hero is singing, "It isn't easy being 
green." That's what I am - with envy. Helen has another date with Mike. 
He's picking her up at noon. Again. I've been expressly un-invited. She 
doesn't expect to be back until about this time tomorrow. The fib we've 
come up with to explain things to the kids is that she had to attend a 
series of nursing meetings in a nearby city. I wonder if this new 
overnight date is going to become the norm.

Helen is behaving strangely. She been insanely horny since Mike phoned 
her Wednesday, flatly ordering her to be available. We've fucked until 
I'm sore, and she's repeatedly masturbated herself into oblivion with 
her favorite long black dildo. She's also terrified. The pungent mix of 
fear and excitement has made it almost impossible for her to get 
anything done. We've fantasized, over and over, about their last foray, 
and speculated about what her lover might have in store for this one.

It's just after midnight, early Monday morning. Helen's asleep - passed 
out is really more accurate. She didn't get home until after I'd put the 
kids to bed, which is fortunate. I'd lied to them about her business 
trip being extended, and they'd bought it, but there'd have been no way 
to explain her appearance when she finally strutted through the front 
door. She was obviously terrified that the rug rats would still be 
awake, but Mike had kept the clothes she'd left the house in, leaving 
her no options.

She was wearing a too-small black leather halter top and matching micro 
skirt, thigh-high hose, and platform heels that made her as tall as I 
am. What looked suspiciously like fresh sperm gleamed on her upper 
thighs. Her hair had been tinted as black as her leather, and curled. 
Her eyes bore false lashes and heavy dark shadow. Her searing red 
lipstick and hooked scarlet nails glared wetly. Long silver earrings 
dangled nearly to her bared shoulders.

I was too flabbergasted to speak as she dropped an oversized black 
purse, approached me, turned her back and wordlessly bent forward from 
the waist. She wore no panties. The skirt was so short that her ass and 
pussy were completely exposed. The cum was leaking from her slightly 
distended, reddened asshole. Her cunt had been completely shaved. Her 
labia were engorged and gaped wetly.

I accepted the unspoken invitation, sampling both of her holes as she 
began the story of her weekend in a raw, hoarse voice that was barely 
recognizable as her own. Her cunt felt as different as it looked. It was 
loose around my cock. Her ass was much tighter, and being fucked there 
obviously caused her no pain.

They'd begun their time together by returning to the mall where Mike had 
bought her the first outfit. But the boutique had been the second stop. 
The salon where she'd had her hair, nails, face, and cunt waxing done 
had come first. He'd explained exactly what he was having done to her, 
then left to take care of some business. The black beauticians who'd 
tended to her treated her like white trash, mocking her for the entire 
three hours she'd been there. They began something which endured for her 
entire date; not once was she called by her name. Cunt, bitch, whore and 
slut were the only terms ever used to summon her.

Mike hadn't returned by the time they were finished with her abusive 
transformation, but they ordered her to the boutique. The women there 
continued to pile shame upon her, mocking her sleaziness and amplifying 
it by their choice of clothing for her to try on. They settled on two 
outfits - the one she was wearing and a turquoise ensemble made of lycra 
which left as little to the imagination as the leather.

Mike still hadn't returned. Wearing the blue lycra outfit, she was 
pushed from the shop and told to sit her cheap ass down in a sports bar 
at the far side of the mall.

Until that point, she'd been given no freedom, little opportunity for 
clear thought. Her humiliation had been relatively private, and there'd 
been at least the illusion of having to follow someone's orders at all 
times. But the bar was an entirely different environment. She was free. 
She could call a halt to her exposure and mistreatment simply by calling 
a cab and coming home. She didn't. Garishly made up and scantily 
dressed, she knew she looked like a hooker trolling for an early trick. 
And that's exactly the way she was treated. The bartender registered 
intense disapproval and the clientele an equally intense interest. Four 
times within the half hour she waited, she was approached and asked how 
much it'd take to get into her panties. By the time Mike came to claim 
her, she was a nervous wreck, though her nipples were visibly rigid and 
her shorn cunt itchily wet.

Her date made her stand and turn for his inspection. "Not bad for a 
white slut," he announced loudly before leading the way out to his car. 
There, in the waning daylight, he demanded a blowjob. She didn't 
hesitate. She inhaled his long ebony rod like she was starving for it, 
which was exactly the way she felt. From that moment until he delivered 
her to our doorstep, the woman who was my wife ceased to exist. In her 
place was the wanton, lewd whore Mike wanted her to be. She acted 
exactly the way she looked. As Mike again demanded her to do, she 
thought only with her cunt.

They ate a leisurely meal in a swank dinner club. Her appetite was nil. 
Mike joked about her being a more prime piece of meat than anything on 
the menu. Afterwards, they picked up where they'd left off the time 
before - in the adult bookstore. This time, there *was* a white cunt in 
the booths giving head to all comers - my wife. Mike guarded the door 
and coached her between face fucks. She had to freshen her makeup and 
wipe as much cum as possible off herself and her dress between visitors. 
She admitted that she lost count of the number of men he sent her after 
the first seven, but she thought there'd been about a dozen. All had 
been black and varied in size between average and immense. She'd been 
surprised to find that each one's sperm varied, as well, in taste and 
texture.

Squatting on the sticky floor of the dark booth, with the sounds of 
pornographic films penetrating the walls to either side of her, faced by 
what seemed to be an endless line of black men, had had a strange effect 
on her. She felt like she'd become a mindless sex toy, a puppet dangling 
by her smeared lips on the end of whatever cock was in her face. She'd 
become crazed with lust. She'd begged Mike to let them fuck her or at 
least use her hands to get herself off. He'd pushed her back to her 
knees and vowed to handcuff her if she couldn't control her fingers. She 
came twice, anyway, untouched.

When he told her it was over, it took her a few moments to understand. 
She reflexively used her compact mirror and the lipstick privided by the 
beauticians to repair herself, then Mike led her from the gloomy 
darkness into the blindingly lit shop. He stopped her in front of a 
large mirror and made her look at herself.

Despite her efforts with handiwipes from her gym-bag sized purse, 
tendrils of sperm had spattered her hair and dress. Her hose were 
ruined. And, seeing herself, her thin red lips shaped a smile that 
begged for more of the same treatment. Mike waved a sheaf of bills 
before her glazed eyes. Her earnings, he informed her. A start on 
payback for the clothes and makeover.

That announcement staggered her. She'd fucked men she'd never met 
before. Once, she'd even entertained two nameless strangers at the same 
time. But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined selling herself. 
Her smile faltered, until she saw the heated way Mike was devouring her 
with his eyes. She pressed herself tightly against him, rubbing her cunt 
against the huge bulge in his slacks.

"I bet I owe you a lot more, honey," she panted toward his lips. "We'd 
better get moving if I'm going make it all back for you."

He leered down at her. ""It really makes you hot, doesn't it, slut? The 
dirtier you are, the more you like it."

And more of the same is exactly what she got. In a pool hall, he 
announced that his whore could be had. Twenty for a head job. Fifty for 
a straight fuck. Seventy-five for her asshole. They kept her busy in a 
back room until the wee hours of the morning. The feeling of being a sex 
toy, a series of holes made to be fucked, became her universe. Home, 
husband and children were totally forgotten. She was nothing but Mike's 
moneymaking whore - always had been, always would be.

When it was over, she couldn't walk. Mike had sat beside her on the cot 
in the back room and tenderly sponge bathed her while she rested. She 
thanked him so many times she felt foolish, then begged him to fuck her 
himself. He declined. "Later," was the only response she could elicit 
from her lover, her pimp.

Later finally arrived. In his apartment after she'd thoroughly cleaned 
up. She cooed and crooned as he tenderly fucked first her distended 
pussy, then her stretched ass. After filling her anus with its fourth 
dose of cum of the night, he fell asleep. Before joining him, she put 
the turquoise dress to soak in the bathtub.

She awoke at two Sunday afternoon to a face full of hard black prick and 
nursed from it like a baby does a breakfast bottle. Mike ordered her to 
paint herself appropriately and get into the black clothes. He fed her a 
more standard breakfast in a restaurant. She was already getting 
overheated, sitting there amonst the rest of the diners in the full 
light of day looking exactly like what she'd become - a cheap whore. 
After leisurely redoing her face in the restroom, my dear wife rubbed 
herself to a quick climax while staring raptly into the mirror.

The moment Mike turned into the underground garage of a cut-rate 
downtown hotel, Helen threw her face onto her pimp's cock without 
invitation. She writhed madly on his meat, trying to force the entire 
length down her throat. Just the thought of what was coming was enough 
to incite another rolling orgasm.

He established her in a hotel room and she began fucking again. Mike 
made her responsible for collecting his money this time. Her worth had 
apparently increased. Her fees now started at seventy five and increased 
proportionately. There were only three clients, with plenty of time in 
between for reflection. She was alternately wracked with guilt and 
flushed with lust. Being turned into a whore had never been one of her 
fantasies, but she found it terrifyingly satisfying. She was overwhelmed 
by the certainty that, if Mike asked her to, she'd willingly forget her 
previous existence and responsibilities - husband, chilren, home, and 
career - and let him turn her out full time.

The request didn't come. He collected her at eight that evening, fed her 
a light dinner, then ass-fucked her in an alley before bringing her 
home. As she climbed from the car, he informed her that he'd be in 
touch, and handed her a sealed letter addressed to me.

Because my fucked-crazed whore-wife has access to this file, I won't 
transcribe his words here. Suffice it to say that I found Mike's note 
very interesting.

It's been a month since Helen's last foray. Before making any decisions, 
I chose to wait and see how she adjusted - or failed to adapt - to her 
experiences as Mike's whore.

She was moody for the first week, obviously feeling some remorse. But 
she didn't cut off her long ceramic nails. Rather, she kept their fiery 
red enamel fresh as wet blood. Nor did she return her hair color to the 
familiar subdued brown hue she was born with. Neither change drew an 
undue amount of notice from co-workers or friends. Physically, there was 
little else to note.

Sexually, however, there were differences. While her denuded cunt 
resumed its former tightness, every time I probed it, I found it wet. 
Even at the most inopportune moments, she was primed and ready to fuck 
in whatever manner I asked for. She was tremendously orgasmic, as well. 
I don't believe she ever got off less than twice while I balled her, and 
I did that at least twice each day.

Sometime during the second week, she apparently came to grips with what 
she'd done. The moodiness vanished. Still, she wasn't quite the same 
Helen as the woman who'd walked out the door and allowed her lover to 
sell her holes to strangers. While it was most certainly too subtle for 
others to see, I noted a perpetual hooded quality to her eyes. She 
definitely looked at men in a different light. Additionally, her taste 
in makeup and her daily attire altered a bit. Nothing too obvious, 
nothing outright slutty, but she seemed to feel naked without at least a 
lick more mascara and eyeshadow than had been her norm, and her lips 
were almost never unglossed. Not once did I see her wearing slacks, and 
her legs were seldom without nylons.

That Saturday evening, with the kids at friends' for the night, I 
teasingly suggested she model the turquoise outfit for me, since I never 
seen it. Merely the suggestion made her eyes glaze and breath catch. Her 
reply was to lean in and bestow upon me a wet, open lipped kiss steamy 
enough to melt an iceberg.

"You want the full treatment?" she breathed as she slowly ended the embrace.

"Down to the last detail," I said, gently stroking a suddenly 
hard-nippled tit.

As she swayed toward the bedroom with loosened hips, I couldn't avoid 
recalling her the way she'd returned to me two weeks before.

I spent the hour-plus that it took her to make herself ready by allowing 
myself to begin to formulate a plan. Mike had some worthwhile ideas, but 
I thought they could be improved upon. His imagination seemed slightly 
more limited than mine.

I heard her before I saw her. The heels she wore were tipped with metal, 
announcing her approach. She looked breathtaking. The electric blue 
robin's egg hued lyrca minidress was moulded to her flesh, causing her 
modest sized tits to swell dramatically from the low cut neckline. Its 
hem was barely long enough to cover the band topping the self-supporting 
silver hose. The blue-green shoes had silver spikes fully five inches tall.

She'd done something to her midnight mane that caused it to surround her 
head like a shimmering cloud. Her lashes were so long and thick she 
seemed unable to fully open her eyes. As she came nearer, I could see 
the wide black liner encircling them, the purple and blue and silver 
decoration of her lids. Her lips bore a red paint so wet it might have 
been glass. Dangling from the matching claws of her right hand was a 
long blue cigarette. She stopped five feet away, her heels planted wide, 
and took a skillful drag from the tobacco.

Her words were smoky. Even her voice was different. "So what do you 
think, baby? Good enough to fuck?"

I did that with my eyes. "Mike's been undercharging for you, whore. If 
you're half as good as you look, you're worth five hundred, minimum."

Her laugh was throaty. "Well, he didn't exactly send me doctors and 
lawyers, you know. I'm sure he charged what the traffic would bear."

We screwed most of the night away. Even after the homecoming performance 
of two weeks ago, I wasn't prepared for her total whorishness. She 
definitely donned an attitude along with her working clothes and makeup. 
She was boundless in her sluttiness, begging in both word and deed to be 
used as the fucktoy she truly was. I gleefully obliged. She didn't need 
to be told to clean herself up between sessions, although she did seem 
to take her sweet time about staring into the mirror, absorbing her 
fresh-fucked look, before repairing the damage.

Long before the end of the night, I'd made up my mind. If I'd told her 
to drive to the red-light district and peddle her ass on some 
streetcorner, she'd have complied without objection.

Sunday, I put the wheels in motion. By this time next week, it'll be a 
done deal.

Everything went perfectly. Helen's in our bed, recovering. She hasn't 
come out from under the anesthetic yet, and I'm not entirely sure how 
she'll react. I *am* sure that she'll eventually be overjoyed.

It wasn't exactly ethical to not tell her beforehand, or to drug her 
into a dumb stupor before driving her to the clinic late last night. I 
was inspired to perform what's no doubt the best work of my career. The 
hours flew by, and I didn't get her home until nearly dawn.

Even with all the swelling, I can clearly picture how she'll look in the 
new working clothes Mike gave me a down payment for. The perfectly firm 
and realistic 36-C breasts will overflow her sleazy dresses. Her 
liposuctioned waistline will make her seem corsetted at all times. Her 
thick red Kim Bassinger lips will beckon wetly for the all cocks she'll 
suck. She'll feel much more at ease in the tallest of high heels.

She'll be working for Mike and I two weekends a month - and not for 
nickels and dimes in porn stores or fleabag hotels, either. Nothing but 
high rollers for my whore. After all, now she has her plastic surgery to 
pay for.
courtesy http://cuckoldnation.org

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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