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Erotic stories about incest

Incest — Keeping it in the family Moved from kopenjoyguiden.se, my giantess incest story about a tiny son named Daniel waking up to a much. Porn category nifty incest stories videos. BDSM and Incest. Free erotic Vid of incest 5. incest Family Life Post-Quarantine, Part 9. Gay male erotica stories involving brothers, fathers and other male family members. I Free downloadable sex clip treated to the sight of her nipples popping up like miniature prairie dog heads coming out of their burrows. Some babes are there to Ethiopian dating site in usa dash you Stora tuttar porr virus and vamoose. I'm a lost boy at heart. There was no seat belt, because most cars didn't have them yet. She was a smart Makayladivine.

And it was good she did, too, because New York Police don't think anybody should have a permit to own a short-barreled shotgun, especially a semi-automatic one with a pistol grip and a drum magazine.

Even if you're in fear of your life. They think you should call and ask them to come solve your problem. I asked mister nice policeman how many people from Piquant Street had called that night.

I didn't give him time to answer. Anyway, there wasn't much they could do. I have the best attorneys on the face of the planet, and the one I called doesn't live in Niagara Falls, so he didn't have problems of his own.

He said, "Stay on the line, Duke. This won't take a minute. Wayne sometimes. I stayed on the line. It actually took fifteen minutes, but they were dithering, trying to figure out what to do.

Pretty soon somebody came to get mister nice policeman and whispered in his ear. He looked disgusted, but whoever had called him off had enough pull that it outweighed his burning desire to seize my shotgun and drag me off in hand irons for defending our neighborhood.

I turned around, and that was when I found out that Valerie Martin had nowhere to go. Now, imagine a beautiful young woman, who is shapely and could model for any of the hair or makeup commercials without even using the products first.

And don't think beautiful women aren't aware they're beautiful. Or at least that other people think they're beautiful.

They may not believe it deep down, but that's because they see the outside flaws that most other people never notice, and they know the inside flaws that they don't think anybody else has but which we all do, of course.

But a woman like that is hit on so frequently, by so many men, married or not, that she's aware that she has something a lot of men are after.

In this case, she had twins to prove that as well. And then imagine that all the men in her life prior to meeting a raving skeleton who not only waved a gun around, but actually fired it a bunch of times, were jerks who only wanted to mount her soft, white body long enough to piston their prick in her until they reached sweet release.

I suppose they wanted more than that. Like bragging rights, to have her on their arm as they showed off what incredible masculinity they must possess, to be able to claim this trophy.

But mostly they wanted to see her naked and fuck her. They didn't really care about her or love her. And this was because every one of them couldn't believe, even for a minute, that a woman this fine would choose to stay with a loser like him.

Just like beautiful women know they're beautiful, jerks know they are jerks. They like to say they're just obeying Mother Nature's prime directive of spreading their seed as far and wide as possible, but they're really just assholes, and they usually know that.

You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that any woman with half a brain will soon arrive at the conclusion that since all the men she's met in her life were jerks She knows that's not true, of course.

She's met lots of wonderful men, mostly husbands of her friends. Or guys who are gay. But all the available men are jerks. Especially the one who got her pregnant with twins and only then admitted he already had a wife and family.

Granted, I was older But she'd been hit on dozens of times by men old enough to be her father, so I didn't get any slack. Not in the beginning. And then there was the raving, gun shooting lunatic aspect of things.

Turned out I just happened to do two things that mitigated a lot of her inborn hostility towards me. That was the first thing.

Later on she'd say it was the fact that I snatched up Chip and protected him, and then took her and Samantha in. But anybody would have done that.

She didn't know what I was sorry for. Actually, what I was talking about was scaring Samantha, who was still sniffling.

But I had done many things in her estimation that called for an apology, and from her perspective, I had offered one. She liked that. I was polite.

And she liked polite. Then there was the awkward, semi tense period while we waited for it to be safe for her to leave. Small talk in that situation is very difficult, because neither of you believes the relationship is going to last longer than a few more minutes.

I'd argue that the only reason the cops showed up at my house was because of the gunfire. The rioters didn't happen to be carrying firearms. They did recover some ten or twelve hand guns either taken from bikers or believed to have been abandoned by them, but those guys were smart enough not to use them in New York.

Or maybe they weren't in fear of their lives, like I was. In any case, while only three percent of the calls that night actually resulted in the police showing up, I was in the three percent.

I'm pretty sure if I hadn't popped off a few rounds, nobody would have come to "render aid. But the riot was fluid, ebbing and flowing.

It would have taken an actual plan to contain that, and the Great Falls PD did not have a plan to quell a riot. I, on the other hand, was static, in one place.

And I had a gun! That, they had a plan for. The point is that that awkward social situation between Valerie and me got interrupted by the police, who took long enough that Valerie had time to investigate and find out she had no place to go, because everything she owned in the world was going up in flames and there was nothing she could do about it.

So when the police finally left, I was then confronted with a weeping woman with two ten-year-olds who were trying to tell her that everything was going to be okay.

That's what she always told them when they cried, so that's what they told her when she cried. When I found out what happened, I said, "You can stay here, of course.

I have plenty of room. Call your husband and tell him to come here too. You can all stay with me until you figure something else out. There was no husband, of course.

I knew there were assholes in the world already, so this was simply more evidence of proof. And I knew, or had worked with, dozens of men who were like the one who victimized Valerie.

These were men who thought whatever they wanted was what should happen, simply because they wanted it. And if they need to lie to get what they want, that's fine because they deserve to have whatever it is they want.

And if you wanted a woman like Valerie, then you needed to tell her what she wanted to hear, such as that you were sadly alone because of the untimely demise of your wife, or that you were a confirmed bachelor because you'd never, until you met Valerie, met the woman you sensed was your life mate.

But when you're nineteen and don't have a lot of life experience yet, your bullshit radar isn't fully functional.

And Valerie wanted to believe in love and finding her soul mate and the whole dream. So she was ripe for the plucking, so to speak, when she accepted a date with the wrong man.

She'd had a tough life, which most people simply wouldn't believe because she was so astonishingly beautiful. She'd also learned from her mistakes.

I stuck out my hand. The tears abated. She was a strong woman, and was beginning to cope already. If he has somewhere else for you to stay, I'll run you and your kids over there.

You want me to take you to a hotel? She went very still, biting her lower lip. Her children went with her, one at each leg.

They knew something was wrong and were worried. Her hands went to touch their shoulders, an automatic protective posture.

I can afford to help you. You need help. If you don't want to let me do that, that's fine. Call the Red Cross, or whoever you do want to get some help from.

But make a decision, because you either need to stay here, or take your children somewhere else. You can't go home. Even her darkened eyes, green-tinted skin and the panic couldn't disguise the fact that she was achingly beautiful.

I admit that, at that moment, I just wanted to see her fresh from the shower, to see what she looked like normally. Don't get me wrong. I knew she was in trouble, and I empathized with her.

I was ready to give her as much help as she needed to get catch her breath and make some decisions. But a relationship takes two people, and so far she hadn't displayed any evidence that she was interested in being one of two people in the relationship I was suggesting.

I grew up in the seventies and was lucky enough to have a grandmother who had a prodigious memory and loved to tell stories.

So if I speak like I'm a lot older than I am, that's my Gram's stories coming out to the next generation. Take the fifties, for example.

Back then a child's car seat consisted of a contraption that hooked on the back of the front bench seat, and which you could drop a kid into. They usually had their own red, plastic steering wheel, so that youngster could pretend to drive too.

There was no seat belt, because most cars didn't have them yet. They were a newfangled idea at that point, at least for people who weren't race car drivers.

And if you didn't have something like that, then you just put them in the back seat, where they sat or stood or walked around or whatever.

You didn't worry about seat belts, because you were a good driver, and you knew you weren't going to get into an accident. Back then most families only had one car, and the only places there were traffic jams were in Los Angeles, and places like that.

I'm not trying to say seat belts and child safety seats are a bad idea. I'm just saying that for ten or twenty years, we did pretty well without them.

And in the current situation, we were only going four blocks, over to Newton Street. We probably wouldn't get above twenty miles an hour.

But the fact that I didn't have car seats for the kids just about unhinged her. We'll be there in a jiffy. We could have been there already.

We put the twins in the back and strapped them in, and off we went. Her street was clogged with fire trucks. Two of them were from Richardson Falls and one was from Neosho Falls.

That was because our own department had been overwhelmed and was elsewhere. By the time they got help in from other areas, though, it was too late to save much.

Such as on Newton Street. Four houses had burned, or were still burning. Basically, what the firemen were doing now was cooling down the ashes.

It was obvious there was nothing left of the four houses. The two houses on either end of the blackened strip showed heat damage, but the firemen had been able to put enough water on them to keep them from catching fire.

Valerie's house was one of the four that was a total loss. The tallest thing standing was her water heater. Her car was also a blackened heap of twisted metal in what had been the garage.

The firemen tried to make us leave immediately, until she told them it was her house. Then they just restricted her to standing feet away.

She cried then, in great, sobbing heaves that broke my heart. She ended up in my arms, and I tried to comfort her. I even said, "It's going to be okay.

I found out later they were crying because their mother was so obviously distressed, not because they recognized the remains of their house.

They didn't. It looked too strange for ten-year-old brains to recognize. Finally, I got them back into the car, turned it around, and drove back to my house.

When I parked, I sat there, leaving the keys in the ignition. She looked over at me. Her face didn't match the words at all. Maybe another man would have been offended by that.

But I knew she was hurting, and that the last thing she needed right now was any kind of trouble from a man. The house I decided on had two bedrooms when I bought it.

I'm not the kind of guy who has cookouts in the back yard. In fact, to me, all a back yard is, is something you have to mow.

So when I did the renovation, I had them expand the house into the back yard. That enlarged one of the bedrooms, making it what some folks might call palatial.

I had a king sized bed in there, and the bathroom could have served as the locker room for a volleyball team, especially if they liked each other a lot and were even a teensy bit kinky.

The walk-in closet was big enough to park a VW Beetle in. Except it was full of clothes. But you get the idea. I had another room added on the other side of the house.

That one was pretty much for storage, including food. It had two freezers in it, and a big pantry. I also kept my business records in there.

Plus with the way I grew up, I would have never understood what was happening. Now, however, in the streets I am never silent!

And if anyone tries to do anything I turn it into a scandal! In the beginning I used to be silent, but now no! Usually people are surprised when the girl is not silent or passive, but Oprah Winfrey is the one who encouraged me not to be silent.

She used to say that no matter what happens, I should never be silent. I still see him every day and sometimes we talk, and sometimes we laugh.

One night, several months after that last week of summer, my dad was watching sports from the sofa. I was wearing black panties beneath a too large t-shirt, they were lace and covered only a small part of my backside.

I approached him. He was sitting in the corner, leaning back with one arm on the arm-rest. I sat down sideways on his lap, using his arm as back-support.

I wanted to see if I could still fit. My dad grunted. Probably thinking that I would get bored of it soon enough, he let me be. He had one hand behind my back and the other was holding the remote.

He was holding it to keep his hand occupied, not knowing what else to do with it while I sat on his lap. I leaned to the side, resting my head against his chest.

It was enough. The next time I did it, I waited again until he was watching something that interested him enough to stay seated even while I crawled into his lap.

I made sure he did not have the remote nearby, so he had no choice but to place his hand somewhere on me. He chose my knee.

I had turned a bit more this time, placing my back against his chest. This way I could see the TV as well. I was not very interested in what he was watching, but it was better than the uncomfortable position of before.

And, of course, nobody walked, or stayed on the sidewalk. But they took off screaming back in the direction they had come from which, presumably, was already trashed.

The riot went on for another three or four hours that night, but not on our street. Valerie was not a happy camper when first we met.

Not right away, anyway. She had the same aversion to guns that most New Yorkers have. That's because, as far as most New Yorkers are concerned, the only people who have guns are criminals.

And nobody likes criminals. So nobody likes guns. I know it doesn't make sense. You could say that eyes are bad, since criminals have eyes.

And hands and fingers too. May as well ban all eyes, hands and fingers. I'm sure crime would go down. At least that's probably what New York politicians would think.

In any case, while Valerie did not like guns, she liked what had happened to her house even less. She lived three blocks away, on Newton Street, and when she called her neighbor to see how things were over there, her neighbor was in tears, saying that half the block was on fire.

Including Valerie's house. So that's why Valerie and her children stayed at my house, instead of going home. And it was good she did, too, because New York Police don't think anybody should have a permit to own a short-barreled shotgun, especially a semi-automatic one with a pistol grip and a drum magazine.

Even if you're in fear of your life. They think you should call and ask them to come solve your problem. I asked mister nice policeman how many people from Piquant Street had called that night.

I didn't give him time to answer. Anyway, there wasn't much they could do. I have the best attorneys on the face of the planet, and the one I called doesn't live in Niagara Falls, so he didn't have problems of his own.

He said, "Stay on the line, Duke. This won't take a minute. Wayne sometimes. I stayed on the line. It actually took fifteen minutes, but they were dithering, trying to figure out what to do.

Pretty soon somebody came to get mister nice policeman and whispered in his ear. He looked disgusted, but whoever had called him off had enough pull that it outweighed his burning desire to seize my shotgun and drag me off in hand irons for defending our neighborhood.

I turned around, and that was when I found out that Valerie Martin had nowhere to go. Now, imagine a beautiful young woman, who is shapely and could model for any of the hair or makeup commercials without even using the products first.

And don't think beautiful women aren't aware they're beautiful. Or at least that other people think they're beautiful. They may not believe it deep down, but that's because they see the outside flaws that most other people never notice, and they know the inside flaws that they don't think anybody else has but which we all do, of course.

But a woman like that is hit on so frequently, by so many men, married or not, that she's aware that she has something a lot of men are after.

In this case, she had twins to prove that as well. And then imagine that all the men in her life prior to meeting a raving skeleton who not only waved a gun around, but actually fired it a bunch of times, were jerks who only wanted to mount her soft, white body long enough to piston their prick in her until they reached sweet release.

I suppose they wanted more than that. Like bragging rights, to have her on their arm as they showed off what incredible masculinity they must possess, to be able to claim this trophy.

But mostly they wanted to see her naked and fuck her. They didn't really care about her or love her. And this was because every one of them couldn't believe, even for a minute, that a woman this fine would choose to stay with a loser like him.

Just like beautiful women know they're beautiful, jerks know they are jerks. They like to say they're just obeying Mother Nature's prime directive of spreading their seed as far and wide as possible, but they're really just assholes, and they usually know that.

You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that any woman with half a brain will soon arrive at the conclusion that since all the men she's met in her life were jerks She knows that's not true, of course.

She's met lots of wonderful men, mostly husbands of her friends. Or guys who are gay. But all the available men are jerks.

Especially the one who got her pregnant with twins and only then admitted he already had a wife and family. Granted, I was older But she'd been hit on dozens of times by men old enough to be her father, so I didn't get any slack.

Not in the beginning. And then there was the raving, gun shooting lunatic aspect of things. Turned out I just happened to do two things that mitigated a lot of her inborn hostility towards me.

That was the first thing. Later on she'd say it was the fact that I snatched up Chip and protected him, and then took her and Samantha in.

But anybody would have done that. She didn't know what I was sorry for. Actually, what I was talking about was scaring Samantha, who was still sniffling.

But I had done many things in her estimation that called for an apology, and from her perspective, I had offered one.

She liked that. I was polite. And she liked polite. Then there was the awkward, semi tense period while we waited for it to be safe for her to leave.

Small talk in that situation is very difficult, because neither of you believes the relationship is going to last longer than a few more minutes. I'd argue that the only reason the cops showed up at my house was because of the gunfire.

The rioters didn't happen to be carrying firearms. They did recover some ten or twelve hand guns either taken from bikers or believed to have been abandoned by them, but those guys were smart enough not to use them in New York.

Or maybe they weren't in fear of their lives, like I was. In any case, while only three percent of the calls that night actually resulted in the police showing up, I was in the three percent.

I'm pretty sure if I hadn't popped off a few rounds, nobody would have come to "render aid. But the riot was fluid, ebbing and flowing. It would have taken an actual plan to contain that, and the Great Falls PD did not have a plan to quell a riot.

I, on the other hand, was static, in one place. And I had a gun! That, they had a plan for. The point is that that awkward social situation between Valerie and me got interrupted by the police, who took long enough that Valerie had time to investigate and find out she had no place to go, because everything she owned in the world was going up in flames and there was nothing she could do about it.

So when the police finally left, I was then confronted with a weeping woman with two ten-year-olds who were trying to tell her that everything was going to be okay.

That's what she always told them when they cried, so that's what they told her when she cried. When I found out what happened, I said, "You can stay here, of course.

I have plenty of room. Call your husband and tell him to come here too. You can all stay with me until you figure something else out.

There was no husband, of course. I knew there were assholes in the world already, so this was simply more evidence of proof. And I knew, or had worked with, dozens of men who were like the one who victimized Valerie.

These were men who thought whatever they wanted was what should happen, simply because they wanted it.

And if they need to lie to get what they want, that's fine because they deserve to have whatever it is they want. And if you wanted a woman like Valerie, then you needed to tell her what she wanted to hear, such as that you were sadly alone because of the untimely demise of your wife, or that you were a confirmed bachelor because you'd never, until you met Valerie, met the woman you sensed was your life mate.

But when you're nineteen and don't have a lot of life experience yet, your bullshit radar isn't fully functional. And Valerie wanted to believe in love and finding her soul mate and the whole dream.

So she was ripe for the plucking, so to speak, when she accepted a date with the wrong man. She'd had a tough life, which most people simply wouldn't believe because she was so astonishingly beautiful.

She'd also learned from her mistakes. I stuck out my hand. The tears abated. She was a strong woman, and was beginning to cope already.

If he has somewhere else for you to stay, I'll run you and your kids over there. You want me to take you to a hotel? She went very still, biting her lower lip.

Her children went with her, one at each leg. They knew something was wrong and were worried. Her hands went to touch their shoulders, an automatic protective posture.

I can afford to help you. You need help. If you don't want to let me do that, that's fine. Call the Red Cross, or whoever you do want to get some help from.

But make a decision, because you either need to stay here, or take your children somewhere else. You can't go home. Even her darkened eyes, green-tinted skin and the panic couldn't disguise the fact that she was achingly beautiful.

I admit that, at that moment, I just wanted to see her fresh from the shower, to see what she looked like normally.

Don't get me wrong. I knew she was in trouble, and I empathized with her. I was ready to give her as much help as she needed to get catch her breath and make some decisions.

But a relationship takes two people, and so far she hadn't displayed any evidence that she was interested in being one of two people in the relationship I was suggesting.

I grew up in the seventies and was lucky enough to have a grandmother who had a prodigious memory and loved to tell stories. So if I speak like I'm a lot older than I am, that's my Gram's stories coming out to the next generation.

Take the fifties, for example. Back then a child's car seat consisted of a contraption that hooked on the back of the front bench seat, and which you could drop a kid into.

They usually had their own red, plastic steering wheel, so that youngster could pretend to drive too. There was no seat belt, because most cars didn't have them yet.

They were a newfangled idea at that point, at least for people who weren't race car drivers. And if you didn't have something like that, then you just put them in the back seat, where they sat or stood or walked around or whatever.

You didn't worry about seat belts, because you were a good driver, and you knew you weren't going to get into an accident.

Back then most families only had one car, and the only places there were traffic jams were in Los Angeles, and places like that. I'm not trying to say seat belts and child safety seats are a bad idea.

I'm just saying that for ten or twenty years, we did pretty well without them. And in the current situation, we were only going four blocks, over to Newton Street.

We probably wouldn't get above twenty miles an hour. But the fact that I didn't have car seats for the kids just about unhinged her.

We'll be there in a jiffy. We could have been there already. We put the twins in the back and strapped them in, and off we went.

Her street was clogged with fire trucks. Two of them were from Richardson Falls and one was from Neosho Falls.

That was because our own department had been overwhelmed and was elsewhere. By the time they got help in from other areas, though, it was too late to save much.

Such as on Newton Street. Four houses had burned, or were still burning. Basically, what the firemen were doing now was cooling down the ashes.

It was obvious there was nothing left of the four houses. The two houses on either end of the blackened strip showed heat damage, but the firemen had been able to put enough water on them to keep them from catching fire.

Valerie's house was one of the four that was a total loss. The tallest thing standing was her water heater. Her car was also a blackened heap of twisted metal in what had been the garage.

The firemen tried to make us leave immediately, until she told them it was her house. Then they just restricted her to standing feet away.

She cried then, in great, sobbing heaves that broke my heart. She ended up in my arms, and I tried to comfort her.

I even said, "It's going to be okay. I found out later they were crying because their mother was so obviously distressed, not because they recognized the remains of their house.

They didn't. It looked too strange for ten-year-old brains to recognize. Finally, I got them back into the car, turned it around, and drove back to my house.

When I parked, I sat there, leaving the keys in the ignition. She looked over at me. Her face didn't match the words at all.

Maybe another man would have been offended by that. But I knew she was hurting, and that the last thing she needed right now was any kind of trouble from a man.

The house I decided on had two bedrooms when I bought it. I'm not the kind of guy who has cookouts in the back yard.

In fact, to me, all a back yard is, is something you have to mow. So when I did the renovation, I had them expand the house into the back yard.

That enlarged one of the bedrooms, making it what some folks might call palatial. I had a king sized bed in there, and the bathroom could have served as the locker room for a volleyball team, especially if they liked each other a lot and were even a teensy bit kinky.

The walk-in closet was big enough to park a VW Beetle in. Except it was full of clothes. But you get the idea. I had another room added on the other side of the house.

That one was pretty much for storage, including food. It had two freezers in it, and a big pantry. I also kept my business records in there.

The "guest bedroom" wasn't really for visitors. I didn't have visitors. I didn't even have an extra bed.

I had all my craft stuff set up in there, all spread out. I like to do stained glass, and wood burning and a dozen other crafty things, and I'm not a fan of packing everything up when you want to change crafts.

I haven't bought a Christmas present in years. All most of my extended family members know is that, after college, I got some kind of job that involved a lot of travel and that I had some hermit-like attributes.

A few even thought I was an over the road trucker, based on the disparate places I called people from to wish them a happy birthday or whatever.

My mom and dad knew what I did, and how well off I was, but the rest of the family didn't need to know how much money I had, so I didn't buy them expensive gifts.

I made them really special ones, instead. So the accommodations I showed them to, of course, were my bedroom. I pulled the covers and sheets off the bed and wadded them up under one arm while I opened the linen closet in the wall beside the bed.

I'm sorry I don't have anything separate for the kids, but the bed's big enough for everybody. I told you she wasn't stupid. Nor did she need to know that my "guest bedroom" had no bed.

I planned to sleep on the couch, something that had happened many times in the past when I fell asleep watching TV or was just too lazy to get up and go to bed.

She looked doubtful. This no imposition. I'm actually looking forward to having some company. And your problems dwarf anything I could even think to complain about, including sleeping on the floor.

It was just an example. Really, I want you to be comfortable, and once you lock that door," I pointed to the bedroom door "it would take an army to get into this room.

You'll be safe and secure. You need sleep, because tomorrow morning you've got a lot to do. I had just reminded her that she was homeless, destitute, with no place to take her children.

They didn't even have non-zombie clothes to change into. Thinking of that, I told her I had a quick errand to run, but that I'd be right back.

I got extra towels for them, suggesting they could get cleaned up while I was gone. Then I showed her how to enter the pass code and arm the security system, which was no loss of security to me because I can change the code any time I like.

I could tell she wasn't happy about me leaving, which I thought was somewhat ironic, seeing as how she had threatened to un-man me if I was bad.

I mean if I wasn't even there I couldn't be bad, you know? The riot was still going on. This particular riot was of a fragmented nature.

My guess is that the original group splintered, which spread the rage and destruction instead of dissipating it.

But the destruction was in pockets. Swathes, to be more nearly correct. There would be two or three blocks of ruination, followed by complete normalcy.

In many parts of town there was no evidence whatsoever that anything bad was going on. Then, ten or fifteen blocks further on I'd see the results of stupidity and senseless rage, where the rioters had, for whatever reason, looted whatever they could and destroyed the rest.

My mind toyed with the idea that someone in a riot only destroys what he doesn't own himself. Maybe out of jealousy that someone else has it? Martial law was needed, but that wasn't in the plan.

More to the point, there was no mechanism for notifying the populace of such a decision, or enforcing it. I found out later that somebody tried to call in the National Guard, but by the time those hoops got jumped through, the rioters had faded away.

So I was able to drive to WalMart, which was open. Don't be surprised. WalMart closes for only one day in the year, and it isn't for Halloween.

It was a nervous place, though. Several employees had been called away to deal with their own losses, and the word was out about the riots.

I saw one guy with two carts full of bottled water, complaining to his wife that it wouldn't fit in their car.

We got here first! You can't have any! She was obviously in "retreat to the compound" mode and who knew if she was armed.

I was, after all. I wasn't too sure about the sizes, so I went larger, rather than smaller, figuring they could grow into them.

When it came to Valerie, I guessed medium and got her two T shirts and two pairs of sweat pants. I didn't get underwear for anybody.

I figured Valerie could do that later, when she got herself some real clothes. When I got back everybody had been through the shower.

They'd put back on the only clothes they now owned, of course, and they looked decidedly odd. Did you feel any better after posting this here? Where have you been?

If you were to edit this piece, it would take a while plus the message might come out a bit different. Asking that the bad works a writer posts get edited by admin is kinda much sha o.

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