. oh well. We barely made it out to the car and Peggy and wifey are feeling each other up and kissing. They hop in the back seat and start removing cl...thes, throwing each piece at me while i drive us all home. A bra, a shirt, a sock, and finally a thong. I knew it was wifeys and it was wet. I gave it a sniff and tossed it back at them. I guess Peggy was going "commando" or her undies never made it my way. I could see both sisters in the rest view mirror in a 69, but couldnt tell who was on top.. But why can’t being sexually objectified be one of those things? And if we excel in one of those things and enjoy it at the same time, why can’t we specialize in it? Imagine a married woman with c***dren. Ask her who she is? You would probably get a reply like “I am a mother first, wife second,” and so on. Ask her if she is ever not a mother and get a big “No!” Well, by contrast, I am a sex object for my husband to instruct, use and play with first, with no close second - even if the second is. I think…we should stop,’ Betty said. To her chagrin, she found that her anus flexed uncontrollably as she spoke. She knew Eugenia was deriving joy from seeing every twitch. ‘We’ll stop soon. Hold still. I just wanna try something first,’ Eugenia said, dropping to a crouch and fishing around the soil with her fingers. ‘Y’know, I wish I had a nice garden like this one. My father won’t even let me keep a potted plant, he won’t. You’ve got lots of tasty veggies here, don’t you?’ Betty nodded. Armistice Day. I was the son of privilege, growing up in New Jersey to Harold and Virginia Scoville. My father was a printer and publisher, and more importantly at the time, an influential man in the politics of the area. He had come to America from England with his father at an early age. He had been academically brilliant and his father's skills with the typesetting equipment of the day made the family prosperous. By the time he was in college, his father owned his own business, and while he.