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Outwardly, most Americans maintain the straitlaced middle-class look that belies the social ferment behind closed doors.
There is the secret use of drugs, fed by the marijuana syndrome. There is the river of alcohol flooding from door to door under the euphemism of social drinking. Then, of course, there is the advent of sexual fantasies brought to life.
WIFE IN CHAIN’S is the story of one young housewife, Brenda, who gradually discovers some startling and perverse fantasies she is desperate to play out. Her story is a mirror of a way of life behind many closed doors. No facade, no regrets. Indeed, to Brenda, her behavior and fantasies become a norm.
WIFE IN CHAINS — a novel of fiction for entertainment. A page from our restless society as food for serious thought.
Brenda Morton held her husband’s cock and studied the massive, purplish head. Slowly, she jacked the loose foreskin upward and saw a tiny, clear drop of fluid ooze from the cum-hole. She leaned forward and licked it into her mouth, then slipped her lips down the thick, meaty shaft. When she reached the furry base, she twisted her head around, separating his balls with her chin.
“Want me to fuck you in the mouth?” Leon asked, spreading his legs, touching her shoulders with his hands.
Brenda lifted her head, letting his prick flop to his stomach, then sat back on her heels. She frowned, but even that didn’t mar her lovely features.
“I don’t know what I want,” she said, feeling her body ache with an unnamed hunger.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.