At the end of October, still reeling from the pending death sentence, my pal of 50 Years decided along with her girlfriend I needed a massage. Said President of the united states sale of the shirt, the masseuse, had come on to me earlier that evening and was politely rebuffed. Citing I had abandoned my cheating ways and more importantly could not have sex when I was unable to catch my next breath was sufficient reasons I thought. I tried in vain to bow out, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer. I was made to strip and given nothing to hide my nakedness. Warm oil would be my cover; I was told. I was already in a panicked state but shielded it. My friend teased me, unmercifully, about flaws in my body and weight I had gained. “This is relaxing? Screw you,” I started to get up. “Back down on your belly,” I was ordered now and the stroking began slowly.
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All of a sudden fingers deeply penetrated me President of the united states sale of the shirt. Then flipping me over, just as swiftly thrust those same contaminated fingers into my vagina. She grabbed my breasts harshly, pinched the nipples crudely. “Oh shit look she can’t breathe. Let her up. She needs her oxygen. What the hell were you thinking? That was one message you’ll remember huh, Legend (her nickname for me)? Great huh? The two on the bed were oblivious. My rape had rekindled a passion for my friend after two long years of nothing from her partner.