Path: not-for-mail
From: Incest Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: "A Helpful Wife" ch.5
Date: Wed, 01 Feb 2006 14:56:22 -0800
Organization: http://groups.google.com
Lines: 817
Message-ID: <1138834582.697278.146370@o13g2000cwo.googlegroups.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: 213.184.235.124
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
X-Trace: posting.google.com 1138834587 8971 127.0.0.1 (1 Feb 2006 22:56:27 GMT)
X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 1 Feb 2006 22:56:27 +0000 (UTC)
User-Agent: G2/0.2
X-HTTP-UserAgent: Mozilla/5.0 (Windows; U; Windows NT 5.1; ru; rv:1.8) Gecko/20051111 Firefox/1.5,gzip(gfe),gzip(gfe)
Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
Injection-Info: o13g2000cwo.googlegroups.com; posting-host=213.184.235.124; posting-account=OHuwPQ0AAAC-Eog3-12CI2dbbgdS3Qoh
===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/helpwife.html
A Helpful Wife
Chapter 5
Melanie Cartwright sat in an old squeaky rocking chair, her hands
folded
neatly in the lap of her bathrobe as she stared sightlessly as the
animated
screen of her television set. Her eyes viewed but did not watch; her
ears
heard but did not listen; her mind was concentrating on more important
matters
than the raucous images dancing only a few feet away. Three days of
bed rest
and home care had alleviated most of the physical damages to her
ravished,
battered and bruised body, but Melanie doubted if anything could ever
eliminate
the horrible mental injury done to her soul.
Lethargically she rose from the rocker and walked to the kitchen,
where a
three-quarter full bottle of bourbon was on the counter. It had been
new and
unopened that morning, just as two empty ones resting in the garbage
sack
beneath the sink had been full the last two respective mornings, and
more than
likely this one on the counter would join them by tomorrow. It was her
only
sedative to calm her ragged nerves enough to function during the
daylight hours
and sleep through the dark night's constant dreams.
She poured herself a half a tumbler full, put the bottle back on
the
counter and returned to the rocking chair in the living room.
Though it was brightly shining outside with Saturday's
mid-morning sun,
she had closed the venetian blinds, unable to face the brilliance in
her
present frayed condition. She took a long drink from the straight
bourbon and
felt the liquid hit the bottom of her stomach. The warmth crept
through her
body, causing a slight tingling sensation to ripple across her skin.
It felt
good, so she raised the glass and took another long sip. Her
heavy-ridded,
shallow eyes turned back to the soap opera on the television screen,
but once
more her mind returned to the horror of that Wednesday night when she
had
innocently accepted the Anderson's invitation...
The drinking at the Dew Drop Inn... The smoking of the
marijuana... The
surrender of her spontaneously passionate body to the assault of her
employerher ex-employer now, thank God... The obscene mouth of his
naked wife
upon her wide-splayed thighs... Oh dear God! She shivered convulsively
and
took another large swallow of the amber liquor to soothe the misery in
her
heart. She knew she should be filled with repugnance and loathing for
the vile
things that had been done to her, and she was. But her nightmares were
not of
them so much as of her own despicable submission and performance, and
that was
scaring her more. She had not merely succumbed to the Anderson's
perverted
advances, but had given herself willingly, and what had happened was as
much
her own doing as either of theirs. The fact of the matter was that she
had
been completely and wantonly enslaved by the ugly but delightful
sensations
they had sent coursing through her helplessly trapped body. Had she
been the
strongly moral person she had always thought herself to be, the whole
repulsive
incident would never have happened.
God, she was so desperately ashamed. Tim would never forgive her
if he
ever found out about that night. He was too proud and sensitive, and
while a
woman might forgive a man for an indiscretion, a man could never
forgive a
woman no matter how unfair it was. She still loved her husband, too,
perhaps
more now with the dreadful knowledge that she had let her body betray
her
fidelity. She alone had to suffer for this, and she was determined to
protect
his honor and her marriage from the secret, no matter how much it might
hurt
her deep inside herself.
Melanie drained her glass and returned to the kitchen to fill it
once
more. After placing the bottle on the counter again, she changed her
mind and
took it with her into the living room, setting it down within easy
reach beside
the rocker. Again her mind revolved with the horrid remembrance of
that
night...
Yes, there was no doubt about it. As things stood, the appalling
truth
would be kept locked within her heart, there to remain hidden forever
as far as
she was concerned. Time, she hoped, would eventually seal the vicious
episode
away in some dark recess of her brain, there to heal until only a minor
scar
would remind her it had ever happened.
She leaned her head back in the chair for a few moments,
wondering how
she could ever convince Tim to move to another town or suburb, the
further away
from Greenridge as humanly possible. But she knew she had to, for she
must
never chance seeing the Andersons again, and so far she hadn't, not
even
returning to the theater for her pay check. She could feel blood
rising in her
cheeks at just the thought of what Amos' lean muscular handsomeness and
Sybil's
voluptuous sensuality had done to her. Truly, they had reached her
baser animal
instincts before they were through with her, and she could never allow
her
naked flesh to run away with her like that again. At least not with
anybody
else except her loving husband...
It was rather warm, and Melanie opened her flower-print bathrobe
she had
been wearing since she got up that morning, and exposed her unclothed
body to
the slight breeze that came in through a partially open front window.
Once
more she inspected her soft, white skin, this time not looking for
outward
signs of damage as much as for tell-tale traces of dissipation.
Strange, she
had to admit to herself nobody could possible know by looking that
she'd been
fucked and sucked half to death by another man and woman...
She concentrated on her breasts, and remembered vividly how Amos
Anderson
had first taken their taut, puckish fullness and made them throb with
life.
Yes, and had made her come alive until she had climaxed for the first
time
ever, begging shamelessly for his thick, long penis to slave a burning
fire in
her uncontrollably lusting vagina... a vagina which until then had
known no man
except her husband. Melanie squeezed her eyes tightly shut as the
erotic
memories came flooding back, reviving a sudden twitch between her
thighs. She
was forced to squeeze her legs tightly together in an effort to end the
tingling sensation there, moaning as she again lay her head back
against the
wicker of the rocking chair.
This is no good... I'm only torturing myself... I've got to get a
firm
control of my senses! My God, am I going mad?
Suddenly she realized that the doorbell was ringing, and after a
few
moments of waiting and hoping whoever it was would go away,, she
resignedly
stood up and carelessly tied the cord of her bathrobe around her waist.
She
walked down the short hallway to the door and opened it.
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Cartwright? Registered letter for you." A white-haired,
stoop-shouldered postman handed her a manila envelope. His eyes
blatantly
traced the contours of her breasts and thighs under the loosely tied
bathrobe,
and he smiled with obvious appreciation.
"Th-thank you," she said, drawing her robe tighter around her and
grabbing the envelope. Who could? There was no return address on the
letter
itself, and only and unreadable scrawl on the receipt pasted to its
front.
"You have to sign for delivery, Ma'am," the now ogling older
postman
said, and held out a thick stub of pencil. She signed with a hurried
signature, blushing furiously at the knowledge that with every second
she was
in front of him, the postman was breathing heavier with excitement.
She handed
the pencil back and slammed the door before he had a heart attack on
her
doormat and died with that obscene smirk on his lips.
My God, she thought as she took the letter back into the living
room, and
sat down again, had she sunk so low that even a postman had no respect
for her?
Angry at him, and at herself, she ripped the envelope open and dumped
the
contents out in her lap... and was abruptly shocked mindless as if
stunned by a
bolt of lightning!
There, lying in her lap was her pay check from the Bijou Theater.
And
with it were three of the most pornographic photographs she could have
ever
imagined. And worse, they were of her with Amos and Sybil Anderson!
In horror, she picked one of them up. The picture was a
full-color
reproduction of herself kneeling nakedly on the couch with Sybil,
sprawled
beneath her, licking hungrily at her tender pink vagina. Melanie had
her
smoothly rounded buttocks splayed wide in full view of the lens,
showing all of
her desire-moistened cuntal slit. With a helpless cry of revulsion,
Melanie
flipped to the next, and saw her flushed wet mouth lewdly ovalled
around
Anderson's hard, glistening penis. She gasped at this obscenity, but
the third
picture was by far the worst. It showed the naked man's thick fleshy
cock
pumping out his surging white semen into her painfully stretched
vagina, her
backsides lewdly flooded with the overflow of his cum.
Melanie groaned and fell back, her arm over her eyes. From deep
in her
subconscious, she now recalled the bright flashes going off and the
strange
noises in the background. Her passion-crazed mind had not related them
to a
flash camera at the time, but it was unmistakably clear to her now
that's what
they had been.
She laid in the rocker for several minutes without moving, then
slowly
sat up and looked down again at the horrible reminders of that evening,
almost
vomiting at the lust which was so plainly visible on her face in each
of them.
One of the three photographs had turned over, and on the back of it she
saw
that a message had been written in the familiar penmanship of Amos
Anderson. It
read:
"If you want the others, come to my house Saturday (today) at
three
o'clock in the afternoon. If you think your husband would like the
photos
instead, don't show up. Love, Amos."
It wasn't until she had read the message three times that the
full impact
of its implications hit her. My God, what did he have in mind for
payment?
He'd want something, she had no doubt about that... but what? He knew
she had
no money...
And then her stomach knotted and convulsed as if it had just
turned over.
She suddenly got the meaning, all right. There was little question
regarding
what he had in mind, only what was to happen if she should be
agreeable. The
ghastly truth that she was going to have to bargain the keeping of her
secret
by giving Anderson her body seemed unbelievable to her, yet she knew
that she
might have to do just that in order to avoid a worse fate. Suddenly she
felt
nauseous as vivid memories of Amos Anderson crouched over her face, his
large
throbbing hardness shoved halfway down her throat, flooded her mind.
She fell
limply back on the rocker, reached for the half full glass of bourbon,
and
drained it straight down. Droplets ran loosely down the edge of her
mouth. The
burning sensation helped dull her senses a little, and she immediately
poured
herself another, trying to smother the knowledge that in a couple of
hours she
would have to return to that horror-house in the hills, for Tim's sake
if
nothing else.
She couldn't bear for him to know the depths to which she had
wallowed by
seeing those indecently filthy pictures of her. It would destroy all
love he
had for her in one wide-eyed scathing moment. She drank the whiskey to
give
her courage, then staggered defeatedly into the bedroom and began to
dress. She
put on the same thin, low cut dress she had been wearing the night Tim
had
attacked her, the irony of the choice not escaping her bitter thoughts,
and
took a last look at herself in the mirror and a last glass of liquor.
She
wanted to be as alluring as possible in hopes she could convince Mr.
Anderson
to give her the dirty pictures without having to compromise herself too
much.
But she had the most dreadful apprehension that merely looking nice
would not
be enough to satisfy that evil man's degenerate soul.
* * *
Melanie's taxi pulled up in front of the Anderson's spacious home
a
little before three. Well, better late than never, Melanie thought
with
wryness as she paid the driver. The neighborhood was quiet but there
were an
awful lot of automobiles parked around, and she had a momentary sense
of panic,
almost turning to tell the driver to take her back to her home. But
her
overwhelming desire to recover those pictures took hold of her again,
and she
gathered up her spirits and walked along the crushed oyster shell path,
over
the bridge, and to the front door. She pounded the brass knocker, and
after a
few moments, the door slowly swung open.
Amos Anderson stood smiling in the doorway, softly tweaking the
end of
his mustache with one hand, the other in the pocket of his crimson
velvet
smoking jacket. The thumb of the hand that was in his jacket pocket
was
exposed, and it rubbed along the seam with a casual motion. Melanie
couldn't
tell if he had a shirt on underneath the smoking jacket, although he
was
wearing a pair of snug trousers and his usual black shoes polished to a
high
luster.
"Well, my dear, I see you accepted my invitation," he said
smoothly.
"Good to have you here again."
"I-I want those pictures, Mr. Anderson," she blurted, trembling.
"Yes, I suppose you do." He moved aside and held the door wide
for her.
"Well, do come in and we'll chat about it. And please, my dear, please
call me
Amos. I so prefer it among friends."
He was definitely no friend of her's, but Melanie didn't want to
say
anything that would harm her chances, so she replied: "Thank you...
Amos." She
walked into the all too familiar living room, and almost sat down on
the wide
white couch before hastily changing her mind and settling in a small
chair
instead. She nervously crossed her legs, seeing already from the way
that
Anderson was roving his eyes over her mentally cringing body that it
would not
be easy to accomplish her purpose.
"Now then, my dear, let's consider this situation." Amos talked
softly,
leaning with one elbow on the mantle of the porcelain fireplace. "You
have
something I want, and I have something you have to have."
"Mr. Anderson... Amos," she said, catching the fire in his sultry
eyes,
"I love my husband... I want to forget what happened between us.
Please, won't
you let me have those pictures?"
"My dear," Anderson said, chuckling, "you are most amusing at
times. Give
you the pictures? Don't be naive!"
Melanie's head reeled from the whiskey and the humiliation of
sitting
here with this handsome but evil man while his feverish gaze absorbed
every
inch of her body. Dear God, it was as if he were undressing her with
his eyes!
She attempted one last desperate act in an effort to frighten him into
giving
her the prints without further compromising herself. She glared back
up at
him, her features as cold as she could make them.
"Amos, if you don't hand over those pictures to me at once, I'm
going to
leave here and go directly to the police!"
"Go ahead, if that's what you want," Anderson shrugged
nonchalantly and
added; "Go ahead, but it'll be the word of a respectable businessman
against
that of a girl who poses for dirty pictures. Pictures that would soon
be
published in a chain of nationwide men's magazines, and hawked in every
skid
row bar from here to... to New York City!"
"No!" Melanie gasped, jumping to her feet. "You wouldn't!"
"No, not if we can come to some kind of, ah, arrangement, my
dear. After
all, we are both adults, are we not?"
"Blackmail!" the horrified young wife hissed. "You're nothing
but a lewd
blackmailer!"
"It's not very polite to call me names, Melanie," Anderson
replied with a
mockingly sorrowful expression. "After all, you are Mrs. Cartwright,
aren't
you? You are the one who's married to Timothy Cartwright, but who let
me and
my wife both fuck you silly last Wednesday night, aren't you? I mean,
you are
Mrs. Cartwright the adulteress?" He laughed in a throaty delight at
his
rhetorical questions. "Of course you are. Now, do you want to go or
stay
awhile?"
A ghostly tremor rippled over the terrified woman as she stared
with
disbelief at her debasing tormentor. Her throat and lungs constricted
tightly,
and she knew deep in her heart that it was useless trying to plead to a
decency
he didn't possess.
"Well, my dear?" Anderson urged maliciously.
"I'll... I'll stay," she managed to say in a strangled voice.
"That's better, my dear. Besides, I'm doing you a favor. I
could make a
great deal of money with those pictures, you know, but I'm allowing you
to bid
for them first. I think that's rather noble of me, don't you?"
"How... how much do you want?" she stammered, clutching the arms
of the
chair behind her with claw-like fingers. "I don't have much, but...
But I'll
pay what I can..."
"Not money. Oh, my dear, never money. I want you, all of that
lovely
firm body of your's!"
"Oh God," Melanie moaned and slumped back into the chair again,
her whole
body sprawling with defeat, her dress hiking inadvertently up over her
slim
round thighs. "I... I can't, Amos. I... I've never been unfaithful to
my
husband, except that once, and... and I just can't again!"
"Yes, you will," Anderson replied, his voice growing stern and
harsh with
command. "You will or else I'll ruin you!"
Melanie sat in a state of shock, bitterly realizing that this
horrible
man would do exactly as he threatened if she did not give in. Every
degenerate
across the nation would have the pictures of her engaged in unnatural
acts of
love. It would kill Tim, and she would be humiliated no matter where
she tried
to run and hide.
"If... If I agree," she said dully, "I want the pictures first."
"Heavens, no, my dear," Anderson said. He licked his thick lips,
knowing
she had mentally surrendered herself to the inevitable. "No, you'll
get them
afterwards. They're my insurance, you see."
"How... How do I know you'll give them if I do?"
"Oh, you can trust me." he answered, coming closer to the chair.
"But
this has taken all too much time, my dear. The others are impatiently
waiting."
"Wh-What?" Melanie whispered in a choked voice. "What do you
mean,
others? Another man?"
"Why, of course. We're going through that little door over there
as soon
as I've undressed you, and down into my private cellar where everybody
is
waiting to see what you can do for me."
"But I thought..." the stunned young wife whimpered. "But I
thought I
was just going to have to please you!"
"Ah, but it will please me this way, my dear."
"Oh, no," she moaned, revulsion mushrooming inside her
disbelieving mind.
"Please don't make me do that. I can't, knowing others are watching.
That I
can't do! I won't!"
"Well, we'll see about that when the time comes." Anderson
reached down
and lifted her dress, beginning to pull it up over her full thighs.
"First
we'll just take your clothes off and then a little bit of make-up... to
make
you even prettier, and then"
Melanie had lain motionless in a momentary shock from the
horrible
threats he had been making, but this last one to perform in some cellar
with
other men all aroundwas simply too much for her mind to accept! As he
reached
to move her dress up higher, she reacted to his touch with a hysterical
repulsion, and without fully realizing what she was doing, she lifted
one leg
back and abruptly kicked out in terror, catching Anderson full on the
chin. He
was caught by surprise, and let out a growling yell as he tumbled
backwards
onto the carpeted floor. He slowly regained his feet, shaking his head
to
clear it, a slight trickle of blood coming from the corner of his
mouth.
"You shouldn't have done that, my dear," he said in a low, coldly
composed fury. "No, you shouldn't have done that at all..."
Melanie shrunk back in the chair, her heart leaping into her
throat. She
saw his eyes flicker with a cruel hatred, and she knew that any
compassion he
may have held for her before had been totally destroyed. Deep fear
gripped her
belly as she watched him bring his hand slowly to his mouth and wipe
the blood
away. His gaze glanced to the smeared streak on the back of his hand
and then
quickly back to her.
He slowly untied the satin sash of his velvet smoking jacket,
exposing
his bare, muscular chest beneath, and without a word withdrew a long
leather
belt from his pants. Melanie huddled in frozen terror, her eyes
staring in
wide-eyed horror as he raised his arm and cracked the belt through the
air, the
tip biting through the cloth of her dress and brassiere to snap at her
left
breast with a sudden excruciating pain. She cried out in agony, and
fell
limply to the floor in front of him, hands clutching his pants legs in
a
beseeching manner.
"No! I'm sorry! Oh God, Amos, I'm sorry!"
The belt sang through the air again, this time catching her full
across
her back and as far down as her buttocks. She screamed again, this
time deeper
as the cruel leather cut its way into the bare flesh of her legs,
leaving a
tiny red welt rising on her skin behind its cruel path.
"Aggg! Aggg! No! No more, please! I'll do it! I'll do
whatever you
want! I'll do anything!" she blurted out after several more lashes of
the
sickening torture. The pain was unbearable and she knew if he hit her
enough
she would faint dead away. Her mind was beyond logical thought, the
only thing
mattering to her was to escape his horrible punishment.
"Say fuck, shit, cunt!" the evil movie house owner harshly
demanded. By
God, he would break this proud girl's spirit yet!
"Ohhhhh, fuck, shit, cunt!" the words spurt from her mouth
without
hesitation, no thought of resistance left.
"Again!"
"Fuck! Shit! Cunt!" she shrieked.
Amos Anderson held the belt threateningly over his head for a
moment
longer, a lust-eager smirk dancing across his lips. Then he tossed the
belt
aside and reached down for the young wife he had just savagely
tortured.
Melanie closed her eyes tightly as she felt the humiliation of his
hands moving
over her, stripping her clothing away. He didn't bother with buttons
or snaps,
but ripped her thin summer dress from the neck down to the hem, peeling
the
pieces away roughly and throwing them haphazardly to the floor. She
clenched
her teeth together, fighting off waves of nausea as he drew her thin
nylon
panties slowly down her rounded full buttocks and off her tapered legs.
Her
brassiere came last as he took each cup in a hand and tore it away
brutally,
her firm full breasts popping out like ripe succulent melons ready for
harvest.
The tiny red nipples hardened involuntarily as they hit the warm air of
the
living room, and stood up like dainty pink buds of a spring flower
ready to
quiver into blossom.
Anderson stood back from her a few feet then, and turned to pick
up a
cosmetics case nearby. This should be a most entertaining and
profitable day
combined, he thought happily, as his gaze once more wandered over the
voluptuous young body sprawled naked and defenseless before him.
Melanie huddled docilely in the center of the carpet, her
thoughts a
jumbled mass of humiliation and hopelessness. She knew she was at his
mercy.
She could not fight against pain or even the threat of it, and she
wished she
was dead this very minute to escape the degradation she knew was to be
heaped
upon her naked body now. But there was no way out, only helpless
submission to
a brutal man who was entirely without scruples or compassion. She had
no idea
what to expect down in that cellar he'd spoken of, but her imagination
ran wild
with fears. What could ever be enough for a man like him? Great tears
of
self-pity swelled through her clenched eves and rolled silently down
her
cheeks.
Suddenly she shuddered as she felt the long, manicured nails of
Anderson's smooth fingers caressing her face. She opened her eyes and
saw he
was kneeling beside her with a large, hat box shaped cosmetic bag open
before
him. Humming delightedly to himself, Amos began combing her long
blonde hair
out into its full length beauty again, spraying it gently as he worked
with
some kind of lacquer that made it shine more radiantly than ever.
"Don't be so frightened, my dear," he said in a calm voice. "You
were
most accomplished with Sybil and myself last Wednesday night. It
really won't
be much different. There are some marijuana cigarettes in the make-up
bag
there, if you would like one. "No," she protested, shivering under his
light,
sure, touch. "I won't ever smoke one of those horrid things again."
"That's up to you, my dear. I brought them over here in case you
wanted
some help overcoming those silly inhibitions of your's."
Melanie sat in dejection as Anderson applied make-up to her in an
effort
to erase the marks of her crying and beating until she was presentable
again.
She looked at the thin brown cigarettes and pondering whether she
should have
one or not to relieve her horror and fear. She was deathly afraid that
she
would suddenly be gripped with revulsion and not be able to go through
with it.
Once it had resulted in a belt whipping... the next time it should
happen, she
was afraid it might destroy her chances forever of getting those
pictures back
from Anderson, and with that all her hopes for a decent life again with
Tim.
The nakedly trembling young wife reached forward slowly and
picked one
out of the cosmetic bag and lit it. She took a deep, deep drag,
feeling the
familiar pungent sweetness within her lungs, and then quickly inhaled
again. As
she smoked, she sat before the mirror that was in the uplifted lid of
the
cosmetics case; and with each pull from the thin, burning cigarette,
she
gradually felt a calmness relax some of her tense, frayed nerves.
She watched with detached interest as Anderson worked on her face
and
hair, studying in the reflection of the mirror the motion of his
fingers across
her skin and the quivering curves of her naked flesh. She was more
beautiful
than she had really noticed before, and she moved slightly so she could
examine
all of her in the mirror. Her breasts were creamy white and firm as a
teenager's, and she could see, as well as feel, her nipples tingling
into taut
erection, protruding from her swelling round globes into the open air.
She
drew further from the soporific cigarette, holding the smoke
longlonguntil her
lungs would almost burst from the delicious pressure being exerted upon
them.
The mirror began to haze her image... Amos' fingers were feeling like
little
spider's legs on her flesh... she could feel within herself anything
she
concentrated upon... the insidious marijuana again began to take its
toll upon
the logic of her mind...
"There now," Anderson eventually said, standing up to admire his
handiwork. "You're all set for your debut. Come, my dear," he said,
lifting
Melanie to her feet with his hand, "Come and see where I will make you
famous..."
He led her as he would a timid child across the living room to a
door at
the opposite end. With every step of her bare feet, Melanie felt more
naked
and defenseless than ever, and with it, a gripping return of her
initial shame
and terror. But the marijuana had braced her a little, and she now
felt
prepared to go through with it in spite of her revulsion toward the
depraved,
handsome man who had her at her mercy. She had created this horrible
situation
by her moment of weakness, and there was no one to get her out of it
except
herself. She just hoped to get it over with as quickly as possible and
get
away with those damning pictures. Then, perhaps, she could piece
together a
semblance of a normal life again.
"Ah, my dear, I can see you're looking forward to it after all."
"Don't call me 'my dear,'" she said thickly as he opened the
door. "I've
agreed to your terms because I have no other choice, but I won't give
you my
soul. You can't make me want you, no matter what you do."
"Are you certain, my dear?"
"Yes, I'm certain!"
Anderson laughed with cruel, taunting maliciousness, and then
holding her
by her arm, he guided her down the wide, broad steps to the cellar
below...
Wanna more porn stories? >
http://www.incesttabooo.com/helpwife.html