Check yourself out - young bimbo wife

You roll over, licking your lips. That cum is salty.

You jump up and land on your feet. It’s obvious you’ve had years of cheerleading practice. Your head hurts trying to reconcile your real life and the memories of the body you’re stuck in right now. Some are downright naughty. Locker rooms, steamy and musky. Not the girls’. Large guys. Not all that well endowed. Huh. Apparently not all black guys are “huge”, hmmm? Wait. What’s your body doing while you try to reconcile your memories with its memories? You’re making slutty faces at the mirror. Great. The blonde is clearly the epitome of “bimbo”. She laughs, pleased with herself. You wring back control and walk to the closet. You could just pick up and wear the pink tracksuit and slutty Vicky’s lying on the ground (wait… no bra? No bra.)

No. No way. You refuse to let the bimbo in charge. It’s the one thing you and your wife always agreed on. Dumb sluts are evil. Fuckable, but evil. Well, the second part is yours, and always safely kept to yourself.

You suddenly wonder. Could it? No. No way. You refuse to let the idea fester. It’s the one thing you’ve always refused to believe. There is no such thing as karma. Or magic. Or… magic…

Oh, this is so bad. Wait. What is she doing now? Standing in front of the large windows, slowly playing with her pussy… her eyes locked into the neighbors’ poolboys’. Come on… this can’t be true.

She’s not only a bimbo. She’s a wanton slut bimbo. You wring control back again, and you feel just how much harder it is this time. Is her body rejecting you, or was she close to orgasming, making things harder to control? You can’t ponder this, you need to stay at the wheel.

The closet. It’s filled with trashy looks, slutty clothes, and a few pictures and postcards. One’s obviously your wedding picture. Vegas. Seriously. Another is a photo with girls, trashy as you. One has a girl who is probably your sister, just a few years younger. If she’s like you, she must be kept as far away from your husband as possible… a postcard from your Mom. It says “Hi honey, Alessandro and I are having the time of our lives here in California! So much better than Ohio with your loser Dad, right? love babe xoxoxoxo muah”. Okay. Terrifying. There is also a picture of an elegant gentleman, some sort of rich farmer type, probably. He’s riding a horse in front of some mountains, holding a hunting rifle. There is some scribbling behind the picture. “I love you honey. I hope you can understand why it didn’t work out with your mother, as you grow older and wiser. I trust you to make the right choices. Know that I will always be there for you should you reach out. I will wait for you.” The print date is twelve years old. You hope that the girl reached out, but it’s the only picture of him. Not that much hope she grew “older and wiser”, anyway. You wonder what happened. There is another picture. It’s maybe six months older than the wedding one. It shows a hunk of a guy, black, and what probably is your mother. She’s a slut! How can anyone sane dress like that? She wears a super short skirt with a red thong where you easily can read “BBC only” in bold white letters. You turn the picture around and there is text here too. “Picture of me and my bitch for my tighter little slut. Next time I’m destroying your ass, little fuck toy! Get yourself ready!”

That’s… all. You wonder if that guy did get into your… her pants again. You quickly count and realize. She was barely legal. She’s just as much of a slut as her mother… and she’s you.