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“JASON, I KNOW SEVERAL GIRLS WHO’D BE delighted to let you screw them.”
Jason McIvers lay naked on their king-sized bed. He lay lengthwise, his ankles crossed, and his fingers laced over his chest, moodily watching Cherry remove her make-up. They had been married five years ago, during her second year in college, and now, for the first time, their marriage faced a crisis which could prove catastrophic. A numbing misery stole over his lanky, big-boned frame, as his eyes followed the deft movements of the ravishing young creature he loved so much his heart sometimes ached from just thinking of her. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t feel exactly the same way about him.
Bitterly he cursed to himself. Goddammit, why did this affliction, as the psychiatrist called it, have to happen to them? Why not to somebody else? Why him and Cherry, for cripe sake?
His eyes devoured her neat, succulent nakedness as she rose from the dressing table and came to sit beside him on the edge of the bed.
Cherry McIvers had one of those petite, superbly molded figures that made men turn and stare; a figure that made men turn and stare; a figure that made lust stir in their loins; that made them enjoy being male animals. Her cone-shaped breasts thrust up and out proudly, and below them, her body tapered to a flat, tiny waist. Then it flared gently into narrow, almost boyish hips. Her complexion was of that creamy, flawless texture women envy and men hunger to touch.
Her hair, short-cropped and softly wavy, was a deep, lustrous brown-nearly the shade of her eyes, except that her eyes had gold flecks in them and the same shade exactly as the fleecy triangle of hair shielding her cute little pussy.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.