No, the murderous glare in my aunt's gaze told me I'd better not stop there.Off came the bra and the thong, and before I knew what was happening, I wa... on my back with my head shoved between Mrs. Monroe's thighs, watching in awe as Aunt Margaret's arm pistoned in and out of her distended rectum. I didn't get to watch for long. With two quick taps of the crop, Aunt Margaret spread the older woman's thighs, planting her dripping pussy solidly in my face.Okay, I'm not stupid. I knew why she did. I need to hear the words"." Please Wendy please please don't make me say it, I can't Wendy, Ican't" I hear my pitiful words in my own head and my self loathingescalates to another level, what sort of husband, what sort of man amI. The answer comes immediately. I'm not. I'm neither. What sort ofhusband tortures his wife with his own shame, his own lies, his ownself delusions to avoid facing up to the truth? What sort of manpromises a woman the physical intimacy, the corporeal closeness,. More

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