This is ridiculous, she thought. I'm standing in my own kitchen making coffee for a man who has just screwed me in his hopped up automobile, a man who is supposed to be my husband's best friend, and now I've used him, and he is going to think it represents something more. Why must I have these problems? Not even the damn coffee pot will work right. What is becoming of me. Am I so rotten as to hurt Martin as well as Greg? Please hurry, coffee!Her hair was tangled and she tried to straighten it. The image reflected in the glass door of the oven was one of a woman who did not deserve the good life she had, she thought. I look like a whore, and now I'm beginning to feel like one. But I'll find a way out, I just have to. The coffee started to boil over. It had been perking too long."Where's my coffee," Martin shouted just before she swung open the kitchen door and entered the room. Martin was sitting on the overstuffed couch in front of the stone fireplace. He had built a fire that was. They were the All American Family, living the American Dream, or so the picture would lead one to believe. I knew more about their real family than perhaps even they did, most of them anyway. It wasn’t long before I found myself thrust up against the bedpost, pinned hard against it. Hot lips came to devour my neck and a strong hand slid up underneath my pink skirt, fingering me through my panties. Mr. Facelli apparently didn’t cum hard enough in the car. I gasped and whimpered like the good girl that I was, sounding afraid. ‘W… what are you doing, Mister?’ I squeaked meekly as my body was fondled by his hands. ‘Whatever the fuck I please,’ Mr. Facelli took just a second to respond before running his lips over my skin again. In most rape fantasies, the man tries to give off the impression that he doesn’t care what the girl wants. In Mr. Facelli’s case, I really don’t think he did. His hand gripped the back of my neck. My body was thrown down onto the bed. As I tried to rise I found.
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