I Can Only Imagine How Nice It Must Be To Be... mp4

My wife was very tall, towering over me at about six feet, like some amazonian caught as a prize in war. But Miss Gilda was short, and stocky. Her breasts were large, proportionate to her frame, and her hair was a tangled mess of orange-red that dangled down to her buttocks. Staring at it, as I perhaps too often did, reminded me of an old print I once saw, by a surrealist. It was supposed to be a copy of Vermeer’s Lacemaker, but had come out as a depiction of the artist’s sister, naked, bending over and about to be penetrated by several imperial phalluses. The sublimity of the artistic moment, it must be noted, is that in the frozen time of the painting the young girl is never exploited: she is only about to become thus violated. Each time I stared at the round, slightly plump, and pleasantly short figure of Miss Gilda, I seemed to be ensnared in this very same moment.It is to be supposed, I think, that each woman knew that I was merely using them for the ends of my own ambition. But. I didn't want to cause a scene.It hurt my feelings that they felt they needed both of them to do it, as if I was going to kick and scream or something. I hadn't done that since I was eight. No, I walked over to her and was prepared to lie across her lap without any trouble. As humiliating as it was going to be, it was the end of a long day and I didn't have the energy to fight with them.Of course, I knew that I didn't deserve it and that they had no right to do it, but amazingly enough, I loved them and I was willing to go along - because they wanted me to. After all, it wasn't like I had never been spanked - although it had been at least two years. I wasn't afraid. I knew I could take it.They didn't give me a chance.When I got within range, Mom caught me by surprise, grabbing my left wrist and pulling it across her to her left side. I lost my balance and tripped over her lap, landing on her thighs. My chest was hanging over the side of the chair and I was looking at the floor.They.
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