I plopped down on the couch looking completely disgusted. I said without any of the usual pleasantries, “Where are they? Show them to me.”He said,...“Madam, I need some proof of who you are before I can do that.” I got the impression that he had a gun stashed behind the pile of old newspapers and magazines next to him.I said angrily, “Proof? You need PROOF of WHO I AM? You KNOW who I am. What I need to know is who YOU are.”He said with some menace, “Show me something that proves that you are. That's odd. I'venever seen him bothered like that."He didn't call me anything, Henry," I answer back, because this counselorguy will just hem and haw around how our names make us feel. To behonest, it's the first time his last name did anything for me other thanembarrass. You'd think that a guy with the last name 'Slut' would try tochange it, but like everything my husband does (or doesn't do) he justgoes along. He explained it one day that it's European or something.Maybe it as once. It was slow enough for her to feel all the veins under the skin of his penis, as it stroked in and out of her, bringing her so much more than she had imagined it would. She thrust up to meet him as they sought their climax. It would be the perfect way for her to end their first meeting as a man and a woman. Her legs went around him, and she locked her heels around the small of his back. She felt as he trembled slightly. She knew that he was getting ready to cum, and humped up to receive his. "She took my hand and jauntily led us to her boudoir. I didn't ask about the notches on her bedpost. I thought it might be the result of a scissoring accident.The handcuffs lying on the floor led me to believe she might be an undercover cop. Which was convenient because under her covers was to be my next destination. Joining me beside her classy, heart-shaped bed, Constance began undressing me with the sensual touch normally only found late-night on Skinemax.With the long-awaited moment now at.