When I looked up, my wife’s face had changed. She was still Melanie, my wife, but I would have sworn it was Britany’s hungry eyes looking back at me.
“Melanie,” I yelled, hoping she was already in the bedroom.
“I’m still down here,” her answer was faint.
“Where?” I yelled again. I found it hard to believe she was still in the basement.
“I thought we were going to bed?” when I flipped the switch for the lights, nothing happened.
“Don’t worry about the lights; just come down the stairs,” she said. I carefully felt my way, one squeaking stair at a time. When I stood at the bottom, a bright penlight suddenly turned on by our old couch, illuminating Melanie’s v****a.
“I’ve been m**********g, Paul,” Melanie said. “I wondered how long it would take you to come back. Can you smell my cunt?”
