Youve Got Weavermail Week 12

Youve Got Weavermail Week 12

Postby Philbill » Thu Feb 18, 2021 3:36 pm

Youve Got Weavermail Week 12

BRIAN CLARKE

By Wednesday, I start to suspect that things aren’t exactly as I thought they were. Check out this guy being quick on the uptake. Something about the eye contact between Chris and Cassie when they think I don’t see them tells me a different story than the one I was telling myself. Mainly, I’m not the chief dick, cock of the walk I thought I was luring two women into my bed. By Thursday, I’m almost certain that I’m losing my wife to the Butch next door; sure that they’re plotting behind my back. To what degree? I don’t know, and I also don’t know how to stop any of that, so I’m actually relieved when, come Friday, the email finally arrives. The week that began with so much promise turned to fool’s gold on examination.

Brian, is the work of keeping two women satisfied taking its toll on you?

I know you’ve had a bit of a helper this week, more than a bit really, but not to worry overall. Weaker men than you have survived it. Of course, stronger men than you have failed, so who is to say what will happen? It’s tough when they team up. Don’t you think it’d be easier if they were at each other’s throats instead of buried in each other’s slits? Maybe you should be worried that your wife seems to suddenly incapable of taking her changes in stride. One could say there’s an angry horde of bees about to infest her bonnet. That butch next store, though, looks like she’s about to get a lot more girlish and immature, so that should help to balance things out for you, right?

Face it, Brian — Cassandra may be a Psycho, but Christiana’s a total Brat.


I don’t need to look up Psycho to know that it sounds wholly unappealing. What’s the best case there? OCD? Worst case is that she takes after the movie of the same name… That, or Fatal Attraction.

Something about Christiana becoming a Brat, however, sounds like it holds a lot of promise. I decide to investigate the descriptions as per usual for proper mental preparation, and I discover —

THE PSYCHO

Your love is obsessive and your grip on reality tenuous. You are paranoid and angry, and angry that you’re paranoid. When you’re happy, you’re an absolute dream, but, as they say, happiness is fleeting and yours is especially so. You are not friends with any of your exes and they all have recurring nightmares starring you.


THE BRAT

No matter how old you are, you’ll never mature. You have the mindset of a stuck-up teenager and you’ll do anything for attention –whine, cheat, steal, undermine, poke, pinch, pull – whatever it takes for people to notice you.


Yeah, I think I’ll unfortunately have to forego any extracurricular activities this week with Christiana — despite her sounding like even more fun by that description than I initially surmised. Cassandra sounds like she’d likely kill either or both of us in her new persona if she were to catch a hint or even a whiff of cheating. Or interest. Or contact, for that matter.

In the moments it takes for me to close up things at work, I realize the pull of watching Chris the Butch become the Brat is too much for me to deny. Visions of girlishness manifest with the gravitational pull of a black hole. I don’t have the thrusters to say no to something like that. Damn the torpedoes of the potential Psycho my wife is about to become, I want a front row seat for that epicene transformation.

I race home, park in the driveway, and immediately run to Chris’s door, knocking excitedly and slightly out of breath. I should exercise more than my imagination.

“Yeah?” She answers, a bit put out by my arrival and still clearly very much in Butch form. I’m thrilled to sit back and watch the change overtake her — from strong and masculine to girly and immature — and I fumble for an excuse to keep standing there.

“Just wanted to…” I fumble for a subject and watch as her disinterest rises. “…talk about the car.”

She cocks her hip out, a hand on it. “What about it?”

It was the right subject. I hadn’t thought about how her impending transformation will derail the finishing touches to getting it street-ready. I guess there’s a tarnish to every silver lining. “How close are we to being done?”

“We?” Chris asks and breaks into puerile giggles, out of nowhere, surprising herself. Her hand goes up to her mouth and I watch as the bitten-down nails extend out, healed and whole, before covering themselves in a glossy pink hue. The hands look dainty, not those same ones that have been working on a car the past six days. I follow up the arms and find her concert t-shirt receding to give way to a sundress. Her lips, bitten like her nails were and chapped, plump out a bit and find a matching pink lipgloss adornment. Her eyes sparkle with innocence by the time I’m looking into them and her short hair is suddenly much longer, though hidden a bit as it’s pulled back into a pony tail. I look down and find that she’s sprouted a little more tit in this form, even as the extra muscle recedes all over. The touch of baby fat is endearing.

I look up to see that she’s caught my gaze at her chest. “I totally have boobs.” No filter, she demonstrates their presence by reaching up to cup them and jiggle them in front of me. “You wanna see ‘em?” She asks, and I do, but I can also tell by the absolute immaturity of her tone, action, and youthfully-blessed body that the change is finished. The Butch is dead, long live the Brat. This of course leads me to conclude that Cassandra has probably also finished her change. Staying any longer than necessary is playing with fire. I’d like to see more of her, but I don’t need to. “I’ll see you later, Chris.” I say and start to turn.

“It’s Chrissy!” She yells with an accompanied peevish stomp.

I nod and turn. Chrissy calls out to me, “Don’t go!”

I pause, head on a swivel since we’re on her porch and completely out in the open to be viewed by anyone, but specifically by Cassandra. “What?”

“Watch!” She says and then shows me that she can roll her tongue. I think it’s a misguided attempt at being sexy. It’s delightfully adorable, but I worry for the both of us the longer I linger.

“That’s… great… I should be heading back to my house, though.”

I watch her pout, making her bottom lip even more pronounced, and hear her stamp her feet even more furiously on her front porch when I fully commit to turning away and start the short walk over. She grumbles out, “You’re no fun,” and then slams her front door shut with a force that reverberates through my body. Like everything else she’s done, it calls for attention.

Opening the front door to my house, I find Cassandra there, blocking my path, with quite the severe look on her face. Her outfit matches her face — dark, formal, barely feminine. “What were you doing over at the neighbor’s?”

“Oh? You know… Just checking in.”

She eyes me suspiciously, her lips tightly pursed, her eyes squinting. “Right… And what did that check-in entail exactly?”

“What? Her?” I say, thumbing to the house next door as cavalier as I can manage. “She’s a bit of a brat, isn’t she?”

I try to pull off a seductive, roguish smile, but Cassandra disregards it completely as her eyes bore into my soul. “You already knew that, Brian.”

There’s a tense moment of silence before she steps aside, permitting me to enter.

I thought I’d cut it close, but maybe a little too close for comfort. I’ve seemingly been caught peeking into the cookie jar. I try to act cool and aloof, but feel like she’s triggered and judging my every breath as I walk upstairs to get out of my work clothes and into something more comfortable.

I didn’t have a chance to get a good look at Cassandra’s body, feeling shrunken under her gaze. Hopefully, I can quell any negative thoughts she might be experiencing over dinner. I come downstairs in around the house clothes — a fresh t-shirt and casual linen pants.

Cassandra waits for me at the bottom of the stairs. Her tone harsh as she comments, “Nice of you to dress up for me, Brian.”

“Long work week. Just looking forward to a nice relaxing weekend with my wife.”

I’m standing a stair above her, she looks me over even as I examine her. She looks great. She looks pretty much like the Cassandra I married. The only difference is that her eyes burn with nonstop, simmering rage when I meet them. “I notice you didn’t shower. If I pull out your dick, will I find girly pink lipstick on it?’

She reaches out toward my pants and I pull back a bit, nearly falling down on the stairs. “No,” I say defensively and thankful that she wouldn’t.

“Then you shouldn’t mind me looking, right?”

My wife just waits for me to do something, there, on our stairs. After a brief pause, I drop my pants and underwear so my wife can inspect my dick for evidence of cheating in the form of pink lipstick marks. When she discovers none, her attitude shifts on a dime. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry to have doubted you. You’re the sweetest and I promise I won’t forget that.” She races up the stairs separating us and showers my cheeks with kisses. “What do you want for dinner? You name it and it’s yours.”

I nearly get whiplash in her shift from accusing bitch detective to little Susie homemaker. I want things to be uncomplicated. “Let’s order up a pizza and watch a movie.”

With a pleasant almost singsong tone, she replies, “Doesn’t that sound divine? I’ll make the call for delivery, and you pull up whatever movie you want to watch.”

Pleasant Cassandra is directly as appealing as displeased is not. I make a mental note to keep my distance from Chrissy this week, for all of our sakes. Thinking of her playful, bratty self, I feel my cock stir. Clearly, he has other thoughts on the matter, but I’m stronger than him.

It’s easy to deny the urges cuddled up on the couch, watching a movie. Our relationship seems almost normal in that moment. I quickly fall into a false sense of security.

I wake up and my wife is staring into my face. “What were you dreaming about, Brian?”

I rub my eyes and croak out, “I don’t know…”

“How do you explain that?” She says, pointing a nice case of morning wood. I don’t want to explain to her that can sometimes happen, regardless of what you’re dreaming about. “I was dreaming about you…” I lie.

Her expression sits on the pinnacle between furious and infatuated for a moment as she decides whether to accept my words as truth. She falls toward me and I brace for impact, but she growls sexually and says, “Let’s make that fantasy of me a reality.”

As much as I’m not a fan of the wild mood swings, I have to say that sex with Cassandra the Psycho is pretty fucking stellar. She throws everything into the act. You’d think it was her last bang before the gallows, the way she treats it with no reservations. A guy could get used to this kind of uninhibited sex, if it weren’t periodically paired with interrogation and scrutiny.

The rest of Saturday passes without incident. I’m on my best behavior and get rewarded accordingly.

Then comes Sunday.

Out mowing the lawn, Chrissy tries to get my attention. She’s wearing shorts that don’t cover the bottom of her ass and a white babydoll t-shirt that’s at least a size too small, tight against her burgeoning chest and showing a couple inches of her semi-taut stomach. At least, that’s the amount of detail I can glean from my peripheral vision — I don’t want to be caught gawking. Not by Cassandra.

Chrissy feels ignored and ups her attempts to draw my gaze. She grabs her garden hose and douses herself head to toe in water. I can see that she’s not wearing a bra by the way her pronounced nipples stand out through the now basically clear cloth. Fuck if I don’t want to investigate more, but I know the risks involved and somehow find the willpower to tell my dick a decisive “no.”

“Did you see her?” My wife asks as I push the lawn mower into the shed.

“Who?” I lie through my teeth, playing dumb.

“Chrissy. Someone should do something about that tart.”

I just shrug. Feigned apathy is the way to go as words could be misinterpreted. It doesn’t earn me any loving, but it also doesn’t earn me any ire. I chalk it up as a win and go about the rest of my uneventful Sunday.

It’s magic hour, when the sun perfectly lights the world on its arc down, when I get home Monday evening. Chrissy stands on the sidewalk in a pretty sundress as if she’s been waiting for me. I nod, but barely, not wanting to engage with the girl, but that’s apparently enough. She lifts up the bottom of her dress with both hands and shows me that she’s currently panty-less. Despite the distance between us, it’s clear that she’s unshaven between the legs. She giggles as I scurry toward my house. I hear her mutter, “Aw, come back and play,” before I shut the door behind me, praying that the brief exchange went unnoticed by my wife. I don’t know if it’s prompted by what happened, but I get a cryptic, threatening text from Cassandra — Do not rub another man’s rhubarb. I don’t know where Cassandra is. She never comes to bed and I barely sleep a wink.

Tuesday, Cassandra reappears, surprising me at work, and casting glares at any woman in the office, regardless of their age or even if they’re attractive. Everyone backs down. Even my boss, who attempts to enter my office while she’s there, turns on his heels and backs away slowly. She takes me to an empty meeting room and tells me that if I’m not cheating on her, I’ll have no problems getting it up for her to ride. I’m worried that the performance anxiety caused by her craziness will stifle Brian Jr, but he thankfully rises to the occasion, saving his bacon and mine.

I’m barely productive for the rest of the day, wondering what awful things my wife could cook up in my absence. She texts me periodically after she leaves, checking in to make sure I’m not “making eyes” at any coworkers because she’d hate to have to “take some eyes” from me.

I come home with a bouquet of roses as a peace offering and Cassandra asks me what I’ve done. I say that I just wanted to remind her how much I love her, and she melts into needy mode, blowing me with the enthusiasm of a porn star. I'm not sure if I'm going to cum, cry, or both. The vigor fights through the fear and frustration and let me achieve a release, even if it isn’t wholly pleasant.

Wednesday at work, my phone is oddly silent with nary a word from Cassandra. I wonder if maybe I’ve passed the test. On my drive home, my phone dings with a text message and I can feel my butt clench before I see that it’s from Chrissy — Emergency. Please come quickly. I can’t help but wonder if it’s Cassandra related. I get home and rush to her door, ringing the doorbell. She appears in a t-shirt that barely fits her body. I do my best to ignore her soft, supple form and ask, “What’s the emergency?”

“I can’t open this pasta sauce jar.” She whines animatedly pouts, baby talking out, “I need a big strong man to do it.”

She holds out the jar to me. I want to just walk away and ignore her, but I twist it open with a pop and she says, “Hurray. My hero!” She leans up and kisses my cheek, whispering, “I’m not wearing panties,” before turning around to confirm this, her cheeks shaking from side to side. She speaks over her shoulder in a particularly girlish voice, “I could use a big strong man to help me with other things, too…”

I close the front door for her, praying that this has gone unseen.

I’m surprised on Thursday when I arrive home and Chrissy makes no ovations for my attention. When I get into the house, I have at least a passing notion why, scaring me to the core. Cassandra wears Chrissy’s sundress from Monday — I recognize it immediately, the image of it lifted to reveal that untouched beaver seared in my memory. My crazy wife screams at me. “Is this what you like now, Brian? Is it?!? You turned on by twats and brats now? Am I too old for you? Am I not enough?”

“Where’s Chrissy, Cassandra?”

“Worried about that little cunt? I knew you two were up to something and with all of that concern, you’ve gone and proven it.“

I am worried. I’m worried that Cassandra’s killed Chrissy. Is this the universe accounting for her unexpected addition to our lives and compensating through her removal? Is this all part of the plan and path, and Cassandra was always destined to become the Psycho for this very reason? I’m sickened by the thought of it, not just because I’ve grown fond of Chrissy in various ways, but because I also don’t know how I’d be able to look Cassandra in the eyes even after this specific aspect passes if she’s somehow gone and killed the girl.

I find some backbone and step toward my devilish wife. “What have you done?”

She raises an eyebrow. Her eyes could bore a hole in diamonds. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Pissed to a level I didn’t know I had within me, I grab Cassandra by the wrists and start to shake her. “What have you done?!?”

The wild look in her eyes is a healthy mix of anger, aggression, and arousal. She enjoys the manhandling. She’s not about to confess to anything because of it. I let her go, forcefully, sending her reeling backward.

In the separation, I rush over to Chrissy’s house to investigate. The front door is unlocked and I enter, calling out her name, “Chrissy! Chrissy!”

I hear a muffled voice and venture deeper into her house, toward it. I find her hogtied in her tub. Her face stained by tears. Her cries get more excited as I approach her and then suddenly, my world goes black.

I wake up bound and gagged, perched on Chrissy’s toilet. Cassandra stands in the doorway in silhouette, brandishing a straight razor like some sort of slasher film villain. She dives down toward the tub and Chrissy screams through her gag. “You thrash and I promise you, you’ll get hurt,” Cassandra chides. She tosses the clothes she cuts through over her shoulder. Half a pair of panties land on my lap as I crane my neck to try to see what’s going on. Cassandra stands, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand holding the blade. “You ever so much as look at my husband again, I assure you I’ll take more than the muff next time.”

She points the blade at my face, “You so much as look at that bare pussy of hers and you’ll have a hard time explaining to anyone how you cut yourself shaving so badly.”

Cassandra cuts the ropes holding me in place. “Go home. Now!”

I hear muted crying from the tub. Knowing Chrissy is safe, I do as I’m told.

I don’t sleep all night, even when it’s clear that Cassandra’s sleeps next to me. I just can’t feel safe with her like this. I stare at the ceiling and just pray that the email will come tomorrow. If everything got stuck like this, I don’t know how long I’d survive.

Friday, after walking on eggshells for an entire week and challenging my wife’s potentially murderous and/or disfiguring intentions, I realize that I have never ever in my life wanted to receive an email more. It arrives in my inbox and I rush to open it, hoping for some sort of panacea for the situation the previous one created.

Brian, having fun yet? I don’t have to imagine that your Psycho wife has been a handful, as I’ve searched my feelings and I know it to be true. She even overshadowed the lovely potential of the Brat next door. Sorry about that. Brats can be a lot of fun. What can I say? The fickle finger of fate can be particularly fickle at times. Fear not, I sense a dramatic change on the horizon. Your wife seems to be drifting from mean and over to the tender shores of the scatterbrained. That neighbor of yours might be about to put on a couple of years, but also more than her fair share of experience as well... if you catch my meaning.

Face it, Brian. Cassandra’s a total Ditz and Christiana is a MILF.


I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank you, Weaver. A Ditz and a MILF? After this past week, I feel like this is exactly the week I need. I seek out more definition for the terms from the aspects list, to make sure that the large print and the small print are in a giving mood, and read —

THE MILF

What you lack in youth, you make up for in experience and an openness to experimentation. You are the mom on the block that all the teenage boys fantasize about. You do everything in your power to keep it that way through words, wardrobe, and wantonness.


THE DITZ

You have a hard time paying attention and you're more than a bit flighty and all over the place. It's hard for you to concentrate. People don't give you a lot of credit and their opinion is pretty well-founded. additionally, there's little to no filter between your brain and your mouth.

In reading those descriptions, my erection nearly breaks through the wood of my desk. I vacillate between who I want to see transform — my wife from Psycho to Ditz, or Chrissy from Brat to MILF.

Decisions, decisions.

I opt to check in on my wife. She’s been a bit of a pain in the ass the last couple weeks, needy to the Nth degree and with a heaping dash of psycho as of late. I would like to see her transition to a form that I’d actually find appealing. The Ditz comes with the promise of living out a bimbo fantasy, something I’m sure every guy has dreamt about at least a couple hundred times.

I walk in the door somewhat early and Cassandra greets me with her arms crossed. "Why are you home early? You get caught fucking one of your coworkers, Brian? You get fired? Are we going to have to have a wordless chat?"

"No no no. None of that. I'm here because I couldn't wait for my weekend with my wife to start."

"Aw..." she says and pulls me into a tight hug. "You're so sweet, I could just eat you up. I could."

We fall to the couch in a mess of limbs. I'm happy the Psycho is about to leave before she does decide to literally eat me up. That doesn’t seem out of her realm of possibility.

"Would you do something for me, dear?" I ask.

"Anything, love." she says passionately.

"Could you grab me a beer from the fridge?"
She smiles. "Of course."

A few minutes go by when suddenly, I hear from the kitchen, "What am I doing in here again?"

I leap over the couch quickly, not wanting to miss another second of the transformation that sounds like it's already starting.

Cassandra stands in the middle of the kitchen, a confused look on her face. I pull a chair away from the kitchen table and sit there, watching her.

"What?" she says, there's still a little trace of the pointed Psycho tone bleeding through, but just a little.

I laugh. Cassandra starts to laugh. "What are we laughing about?"

"You," I say and point at her.


“That’s not funny,” she says a forced angry look on her face. As she gazes around the room, confusion paints in broad strokes over that expression. “What was I in here for?”

“You were going to get me a beer.”

“Of course!” She proclaims like this is some sort of life-altering realization. “A beer…” Her forehead wrinkles as her brows furrow. Her hair looks more chestnut than dark brown as the fire of intelligence starts to fade from her eyes. I swear I can see the thoughts actually leave her mind. Her outfit looks uncoordinated, like her top and bottom are having two different conversations. The long flowing skirt doesn’t match with the dress shirt rolled up her arms and tied beneath her breasts. Her clear absentmindedness reminds me of a cartoon fish, so I say to her, “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.”

She bursts out into laughter, sending her whole body shaking. Hair spills down off of her head, lightening to a dirty blonde — the perfect shade for a Ditz. Her face goes red from the laughing; it’s almost as if the fits she can’t hold off are cutting the flow of oxygen to her brain, strangling out the remaining functioning cells. Even so, her breasts jiggle wildly with every heave of her laughing body, expanding beyond their previous size and clearly natural by the way they shake and quiver. She looks daintier. Every ounce of threat that was there with the Psycho evaporates along with her mind.

“Oh!” She says, nearly catching her breath. Confusion sets in again. “What am I laughing about?"

“Everything,” I say in a silly voice, sending her into another uncontrolled fit of the funnies.

"Oh!" she says, hands on her knees, giving me the perfect view of her tits down her shirt. She tries to catch her breath. "Where is my mind?" she asks.

"Gone," I reply, noticing that to be true.

I see the briefest glimpse of fear in her eyes, but then that disappears, lost in the tide of her mind with everything else.

"Hi, Bri-bri!" Cassy says with a big wave.

The transformation complete, I cross the room, rip her shirt off, pull her skirt and panties down, bend her over the kitchen table, and angrily fuck my wife, taking out all my frustrations with her from the preceding week in one rough session. I’m quickly spent from the frenzied, intense action. I pull out and shoot his load onto her new, extra jiggly chest. She looks down at it and laughs, then looks up at me to ask, "Um. We're naked. Are we going to have sex?"

"Stay right there," I say, pulling my pants up and pointing at the Ditz that is my wife.

"Oookaaaay," she says and starts to play with the cum on her chest like it's some sort of toy.

I check to make sure I’m dressed enough for public display before I duck next door. It’s my hope that I can enlist Christiana’s help in wrangling Cassy this week and I nearly forget that she’s gone through a transformation herself as well. I ring the doorbell and Christiana is definitely no longer Chrissy; the change from Brat to MILF is easily spotted. I can see this clearly because she answers the door in a flimsy robe with matching underwear beneath. The baby fat has shifted around her body, producing a much larger ass and chest. Her nipples and areola look bigger as well through the little bit of covering. “Hello, Brian,” she says in a smokey voice that makes me forget I just had sex with my Ditz wife. It seems like the undercurrent of even a simple greeting like that carries with it the offer of sex. Her face has a few more wrinkles, but some expertly applied makeup as well. She sees me staring and offers, “Do you want to come in?” The way she emphasizes the penultimate word leaves little need for imagination. Fuck. I have to get off the street before anyone walks by and notes the rod forming in my pants. She’s well aware of the effect she has and clears a path for my entrance. She closes the door behind her and drops any pretense of trying to keep her robe fastened, giving me an even better look at her body. Every movement shows that she’s an expert at seduction. I feel like Dustin Hoffman, suddenly, but I know she’s trying to seduce me. She makes no attempts to hide that at all. I’ve never particularly had a longing toward an older woman, but with her standing in the doorway enticingly, the appeal is incontrovertible. Sex is a perfume she sprays herself with every morning and the scent lasts the whole day long.

“You going to stand there open mouthed or you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” She asks directly. God, even her direct nature is a turn-on.

I can’t help but be direct in return, “I’m wondering what it’s like to fuck you.”

She starts to slowly stride toward me as she speaks, each step a little dance, perfectly placed to position her and land with dramatic underlining effect to her words. “That. Is a shame. A wonder like that. Could drive a man insane. I guess it’s up to me. To rid you of the wonder. And put your mind. At. Ease.”

She’s upon me by the time she finishes speaking and she pulls me in for a toe-curling kiss, the likes of which long-separated lovers would still regard with a “damn!”

I’ve had all kinds of sex. Happy sex. Congratulatory sex. Angry sex. Make-up sex. Consolation sex. I’m quick to learn that MILF sex is sex in its purest form. Yes, she wants to be adored and treated like a goddess, but it’s reciprocal — she treats me like a god in return. Our bodies merge in a way that I’ve never experienced. She gets me where she needs me wordlessly. I know when to suck on her protruding nipple, because it’s thrust perfectly into my face. It doesn’t feel forced, though. It just feels right. Everything about the act feels right. Even when she escalates the action, with a finger placement where I’ve never experienced it before, the shock is brief and the pleasure immense. I once studied being present in the moment in a Psych class in college. That’s the best way to describe it — perfectly present sex. Her knowledge works to elevate the coupling beyond the traditional. Afterward, there’s no need to cuddle. The act itself, and its culmination, is all that’s required. Standing up from the couch and putting clothes I don’t even remember removing back on, she says to me, “Any time that wonder crosses your mind, you know where to find me.”

I find Cassy still in the same place I left her, happy that she’s decent enough at following commands. She sees me, looks down at herself, and says, “"Um. I’m naked. Are we going to have sex?"

The offer has some appeal, but I’m still enjoying the blissful afterglow of sex with Christiana. “I’d love to go upstairs to the bedroom and watch you play with yourself,” I offer.

“Oookaaay!” She says enthusiastically, bounding toward the stairs.

I’m sure, if she keeps going long enough — and I know she will — I’ll be enticed to join her in some way, but I know that it won’t hold a candle to what I experienced next door.

I learn that the bimbo fantasy doesn’t have the power of a true MILF reality.

I know that I’ll spend the next week exploring the both of them to their utmost potential, making a mental note to pick up some sports drinks tomorrow. I’m really going to need to stay hydrated this week.

After the pain of last week, I’m up for as much pleasure as possible; especially now that I know how fleeting it all can be. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse, sometimes… just different. My entire world can change with just one simple email, after all.
Philbill
Transformation Master
 
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