Pottering elsewhere, our wives play Chris Isaak. Humming Wicked Game, her fingernails graze my inner thigh. Temptation's frisson; arousal stains my thong. "Alley cat morals." She disagrees. "Way worse." Fingers press my underwear against super slick folds. She smirks knowingly. I whimper. "You're bad." "And you aren't." "Our wives?" "Need never know!" "I love her." "What's love got
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