Dear Cum Lush,
My really hot wife recently fell down the stairs and the police couldn’t prove it wasn’t an accident, so that’s good. Anyway, she bonked her head and now she thinks she’s sixteen.
The sex has been fantastic, although I think her mind is still degrading, because we’ve gone from, “are your parents home,” to “is your wife home,” to “is Mom home” and she keeps shouting, “Oh, Daddy,” which is kind of hot, except for when one of the neighbors called Child Protective Services.
My question is, do my prudish neighbors and Child Protective Services have any grounds for removing my babykins from my care or incarcerating me?
Yours wishing she really was sixteen but prepared to enjoy every droplet of teen-pleasuring that her degrading mind can conjure,
Dreamboat Daddy
Dear Daddy,
OMG, my slutty slit just gushed pleasure at the mere utterance of those words. What self-respecting member of the fairer sex doesn't idle away her days dreaming about having a super hunky Daddy to throw her arms around, to wriggle her petite and insubstantial form into, to rub her cheek adoringly against those firm masculine pectorals or gaze up lovingly whilst standing on the absolute tip of her tippy, tippy-toes, waiting for that moment when those gym-developed arm muscles encircle you and lift you effortlessly off the floor.
Honestly, which wife of accruing years hasn't spent many a day shimmying into a gorgeously sexualised teen-appropriate outfit for their Dreamboat Daddy. Or crawled beneath the breakfast table to unsheath his huge Daddy dong, flopping it out with your tiny hand before closing your small mouth about its substantial head and sucking and suckling as drool splashes down onto the floor between your knees. Who hasn't suckled and lapped and teased your tongue along its incredible length whilst marvelling at its incomparable girth, wondering how you're ever going to fit all of it within teeny, tiny, teen-wannabe you. Until, finally, you take the plunge; gurgling about his meat as he strokes your hair and murmurs over and over that you're such a good little babykins. Choking on his manhood, spluttering as he thrusts, gagging as he buries himself deep within the tightness of your throat, your mouth filled with the taste of him, your cheeks feeling every pulse of his unsurpassed cock. Feeling the pressure rise until it twitches violently between your lips and with one final grunting moan, he unleashes spurt after spurt of hot jizz into your undeserving flesh.
All safe in the knowledge that it's not your mouth he's thinking about fucking but your niece’s or some random young teen slut's who has just started work as an intern in his office. What could possibly be better? What more could a babykins want from their Dreamboat Daddy?
But do be careful, Daddy, because I had a friend—let's call her Barbara Bentwistle of 32 Campion Gardens, Sudbury Common, because that's her name—and she suffered from a similar brain/age regressive trauma thingy. Though hers came from repeatedly walking into lampposts and door frames and saucepans and suchlike because she was very clumsy. Everything started out fine and dandy and she was simpering and twirling and squirming about a single foot whilst looking up through fluttering eyelashes as she nibbled on the edge of a thumbnail that seemed permanently attached to her bottom lip. She was, in short, every Daddy's wet dream babykins.
But the clumsier she got, the more she regressed and before you knew it; well, I had a particularly unhappy night out supping cocktails with her.
Now, I didn't mind the nappy or her insisting on drinking her espresso martinis from a teated baby bottle, but after a while, the gurgly burbly baby talk just got a bit much and the smell from her padded undergarments got quite intense and there was definitely seepage. Before you knew it, she was screaming and balling and her face had turned quite scarlet because she was holding her breath and winding her made no difference until eventually, I had no choice but to flop her on the floor, flip-up her dress, and assess what was happening in the nappy department. And let me just say that on reflection a diet of milk-based cocktails may not have been the wisest of choices and it was rather fortunate that I had an unopened packet of baby wipes secreted in the bottom of my handbag. And maybe things are best left there, which is how I felt about our friendship.
Anyway, I digress. As for your problem, Dreamboat Daddy, the solution is simple. Throw your babykins a sixteenth birthday party, invite the prude prunes and Child Protective Services. There you have it. Job done. They are all witnesses to the incontrovertible fact that your babykins is, in fact, sixteen regardless of whatever behaviour she might choose to adopt in the future.
Yours amazed at the fact that I managed to get through replying to your letter without calling you a dirty, lecherous, perverted, old man with deviant tendencies and feeling quite pleased with myself for showing such restraint,
Cum Girl (Mrs)
beep de beepity beep
All together now! 'Dick pic incoming'.
Ohhh, what a strange appendage that is. Quite jaundiced, almost yellow, and such an unusual shape for a cock, what with its thick middle and the narrowing towards the base and head. Looks torpedo-like. And is that a line of small black warts or are they beauty spots running up its length? Hmmm, well, I've never seen anything quite like that before. I think I'm going to have to consult my 'Big Book of Dicks'. Right, Y, Yak dicks, Yeasty dicks, here it is, Yellow dicks, pages 874-881. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. That's all rather frustrating. I wonder who might possess such an individual and unique penis and whether it stays hard like that days and nights? It certainly is a bit of a magical mystery tour. Maybe if I shared the pic in a lonely hearts club, I might find out who it belongs to. Definitely worth a go.
Right, what's next? Well, it looks like another stagger to the fridge is in order because there is something wrong with these wine bottles. I think they've got extra thick glass or false bottoms, either that or the Vino di Plonko is evaporating faster than normal because I've barely had a couple of sips out of that last bottle and now it's all gone. So, whilst I'm wobbling there and back, and definitely not falling over and rubbing my heated cheek against the cool kitchen stone floor tiles, why don't you saddos indulge yourself by going 'to a letter'.
Dear Ugly Sister,
I am a Hot Wife, MILF, Cougar of the supreme, deluxe variety. Every day, I pull on a pair of micro denim shorts ensuring that the single remaining thread of the gusset is lost deep within the soft, smooth, oozing and inviting charms of my cuntage and that only the absolute barest minimum of my utterly spectacular arse is fabric-covered, before trying to zip the zipper and do up the button only to laugh at my silliness at having forgotten yet again that there is no button or zipper and that MILFing, cougar, hot wives should always display the waxed enticement of their pubic mound to every passing stranger.
Most days, I couple this with a super-micro crop top t-shirt at least five sizes too small so that the fabric is stretched to near tearing point across my stupendous, all-natural, ultra-firm, D cup breasts. Well, part of them at least because what hot wife doesn't want to show the absolute maximum amount of underboobage beneath her barely concealed, over-ripe, oversized, permanently erect nipples? Some days, I might choose a micro bikini top instead, especially if it's sunshiney and I want to work on my all-over body tan.
Then it's merely a case of strapping myself into a pair of five-inch high stiletto sandals and a couple of hours fixing my hair and makeup and I am ready to face the world. Which is where the trouble begins.
Because, Ugly Sister, I can barely step outside my front door without being mobbed by every Tom, Dick, Janet and Samantha who happens to espy my luscious form. And, to be honest, ‘mobbed’ is really a very polite word for what they're doing; as is fondling, groping, fingering, frigging, tweaking and exposing. Literally yesterday, I decided to visit the local supermarket just for a few essentials (Yakult, Ryvita and Celery if you want to know) yet no sooner was I through the doors, that some acne-coated teenage girl was on her knees between my thighs and giving my poor cuntage such a violent tongue-fucking that all I could do was wobble precariously atop my spindly heels.
Well, no sooner had she got her wriggle finger ramming into my well-used anal star than I found myself set upon by a zimmer-frame-supported elderly gentleman who seemed to believe that if he sucked long and hard enough on my blushing, cherry red nipples, they would commence spurting milky goodness like a pair of titty fountains.
Before you could say 'Prince Charming', I was bent at the waist across the Customer Information Desk as acne girl rubbed her poorly maintained and not very hygienic hussy-pussy repeatedly across my perfect makeup and who knows who rammed a succession of firm, solid, thick, stick-like objects into the warm embrace of my sloppy, sopping, slut-snatch and perhaps one or two might even have taken advantage of my prostrate positioning to check out my backstairs passageway. Guessing by the prodigious amount of cum that was dripping down my thighs I'm quite certain that some of them were male reproductive genitalia.
By the time I was flung across the fresh vegetable display, my outfit was reduced to scraps and remnants, my make up was an absolute disgrace, my hair had long given up any sense of styling, my mind had long since fled to a sunlight upland of near-constant orgasmic pleasure, and my body was more like a stringless marionette than human flesh and blood. Undoubtedly, there were plentiful more insertions of a fucking type that occurred as I lay spread, broken, helpless and available for any passing customer though the only one I can now recall was the well-shaken bottle of champers that was opened with the neck firmly inserted between my labia. Believe me, Ugly Sis, that cork fucking hurt and Prince Charming needed a pair of long-nosed pliers to remove it once I finally got home.
Which wasn't something I managed to do until I'd been used as a replacement public toilet for most of the afternoon due to a plumbing issue with the existing toileting facilities. And who would have guessed how many people are happy to relieve themselves in the middle of the canned goods aisle surrounded by cheering hoards of onlookers and well-wishers?
So, ugliest of all the ugly sisters, how do I obtain a life like yours; mundane, dreary, trapped in a loveless and sexless marriage, where all you have to look forward to each and every day is mockery and pity, and where the best the future might hold is an arid and pointless existence as a spinster or widow? How can I be despised and loathed as you are? How can I obtain a face that inspires a thousand gargoyles and shatters mirrors at a hundred paces? How can I shuffle through my days unnoticed except for the jeering taunts of pre-pubescent boys? Please, oh sister who put the agony in aunt, tell me how I can visit the supermarket unmolested.
Huggles and kisses,
Your Sis,
Cinderella
Ps. The glass slipper still fits like a glove because I don't have feet like pigs trotters, unlike a certain someone.
Dear Cinders,
Fuck you, bitch. Fuck you and your vapid, inane Fairy Tale existence. And next time you catch Charming giving the babysitter or the live-in help a bit of a good seeing to, don't go bringing your stupid teary face around here looking for sympathy.
And if I ever see that shitty glass slipper of yours, I'm going to use my gargoyle face to shatter it into a million pieces.
Love and huggles,
Cum Girl (Mrs)
What a bitch. Family, huh, and not even real biological family but some barely worthy of mention whore of a step-sister. But, never mind, we all have relationships that are sent to challenge us. But let's just pass that by and rush our way to the next letter with barely a perk over our collective shoulders. Because let's be honest, it seems this nonsense is never, ever going to end.
Dear Cum Crumpet,
My wife is an A-level teacher of sex education. I asked her what her students thought of Wife Lovers and she let slip that the more well-endowed boys loved her. Should I be concerned?
Yours nibbling at my nails because her clitoris seems to be permanently required elsewhere.
Jobbing Hand (Mr)
Dear Mr Hand Job,
Concerned? No, of course not. What exactly do you have to be concerned about? This is a typical, misogynistic male attitude. Keep the little lady at home. Your personal whore in the bedroom. A put-upon drudge everywhere else.
Your wife disappears off to work every day in pursuit of a fulfilling career; and by the sounds of it, it is very fulfilling; whilst you stay home whining and undermining her wonderful professional endeavours. You should be ashamed of yourself.
And absolutely no consideration for the needs of those young gentlemen. How are they going to mature into well-endowed, well-adjusted men capable of showing deserving young ladies the delights of sexual pleasure-seeking? Given the correct training, those gentlemen are going to turn every sweet debutante they encounter into a sex-crazed nympho crawling about on her hands and knees, with a drooling mouth and drippy cunny begging and pleading for another taste of delicious man-sausage. So, really, your wife is selflessly doing the patriarchy's work and she should be lauded for her dedication.
And as a sex educationalist, there really is only so much that can be achieved through words, diagrams and textbooks. There comes a point where you have to get deep down and dirty, get hands-on, grab the bulls by its horny horn and give it a good yank until it spurts its creamy goodness into your waiting mouth. And there really is little point in playing with the itty, bitty, finger-pinkie, 'is it a clitty', dicklets. If you're going to do a class demonstration, then you need to make sure you're using the most substantial pieces of man-meat available otherwise, how are those sat at the back going to be able to see what's going on?
So, Mr Hand Job, how about showing a little support for your significantly-better-than-you other? Rather than bemoaning her sacrifices, why don't you ensure her cum-filled, cum-splattered flesh is tongue-cleansed of an evening so that she might look forward to the following day's endless procession of circle jerks, double penetrations, gang bangs, blowjobs, spit-roastings, and 'five into one are the only worthwhile sex sessions' with freshened flesh and a relaxed mind?
For once in your life, why don't you try not to be a self-centred prick? Not everything is about you, you know.
Yours confident that I am simply the best Agony Aunt ever and that all these whinging saddos really don't deserve my astute, erudite and tactful brilliance,
Cum Girl (Mrs)
There's more?! For fucks sake. I'm not sure this pink alcoholic piss is going to hold out if there are too many more. Besides, I'm in need of a little tiddling relief myself and I'm not one hundred percent certain I've got it in me to crawl to the bathroom and back. Well, I guess, if we have to, we ought to get this over and go 'to the letter'.
