Now on my stomach, my buttocks were massaged and teased until I could not help but lift up and present in mounting position. An oiled digit penetrated my rosette. “This entrance shall be reserved for me, Mrs. Cleanknockers,” Mr. Jones-Smyth ordered. “After she is broken to saddle, I may allow artificial female stimulation, but the only cock to bugger her, will be mine.” I clenched his finger. In response, he probed deeper and twirled as if seeking an oracle reading. “Make a note: Daily enemas.” While Mrs. Cleanknockers prepared the first sudsy solution, she conferred with him in low tones.
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