.Still puzzling over the deeply unsettling dream I'd had last night, justas I was locking this diary into a hidden compartment in my desk togetherwith...the small black box and Christmas card with its strange message "Forsure t'is not Finnegan", I'd looked up to suddenly see Siobhan dressed ina lovely long white summery dress underneath a white parasol, strollingin from the garden holding some freshly picked flowers looking morespectacularly ravishing and goddess like than I'd ever seen her. Standing on their front porch was an older, muscular guy, probably in his late forties or early fifties wearing a polo shirt and jean with cowboy boots. His dark greasy hair was a rumpled mess, like he’d just crawled out of bed, except the stubble on his tanned face and the dark rings under his eyes told Emily that he probably hadn’t slept that night, maybe not even in days.The guy was also holding a loaded nine-millimeter handgun.Surprisingly, orangeEmily wasn’t particularly scared. “Really?”. He travels around my neck, ears and mouth and before I know it I have dropped into his lap and started grinding. Nick stops and looks at me. "So who does it better?" he asks me. I feel really lost at the moment. "I don't know, you were both really good!"Brad sighs and says "Maybe we should do it at the same time? That way you don't have to choose." Nice idea man!" Nick agrees. He stands me up and starts losing my dress in places. "Why are you doing that?" I ask. "So that Brad and I can get to. I grunted and moaned and I perspired and I leaked from my bound and teased cunt. I was a mess. I knew, as I was on my knees, bent over scouring the tub and toilet, that I was far from sexy – but that I was entirely humiliated.It was nerve-wracking as well. I needed to be perfect, so I would go over the same spot over and over, or return to places I had cleaned before to search out any speck of dust or grime I might have left behind – all while racing the clock and fighting my own discomfort and.
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