Tawnee Stone

Undressing quickly and draping on a cotton night shirt later that night, his wife snipes as she climbs into bed. "You were gawking at that Tawnee girl like a gauche teenager. It's creepy, Tom." He snaps his head from the pillow toward her. "I was not." Defensive tone. "The hell you weren't. I saw your eyes. I know that look." "I was just sitting on the lounge. The place was swimming with girls this afternoon. If anything, I was tired and staring off into space. I don't look at them that way." "Her you do. Tawnee. Her tits and ass literally spilling from her bikini. She knows it, too." His wife makes a quick reach for his crotch. He recoils. "Holy shit, Tom, you're even hard now thinking about her. You're pathetic." He's irritated now and turns over, facing away from her. "Tom, she's our daughter's friend, " she says, her voice changed from disgusted to sad and weak. "And she knows you look, too." He only sighs hard in retort but doesn't turn around. Minutes of silence feel long and heavy. When he finally hears his wife's breathing change, his fingers slip under his waistband. He realizes he is surprised at this...has his masturbating become a reflex habit after she falls asleep? He sighs. His guilt, along with his fantasies of Tawnee and his arousal, rise.

Just a little snapshot of Tawnee's effect on Dad.
 
Far too realistic to enjoy.

Smart women let the young girls do the heavy lifting of wearing skimpy bathing suits, short skirts, tube tops, etc., and then take their men to the bedroom to collect what's theirs.
 
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