Yes, I wanted that badly enough. Very badly. Of equal speed, I brushed aside the notion of asking Jonas for permission. If I had my phone out, and he pleaded no and stood his ground (figuratively), then that would be an obstacle I wasn’t keen to deal with. I have never been one of all the people who are addicted to their smartphones, or even singing its praise and feeling lost without it, but now I was surely glad I had a moderately good phone, with a nice camera, capable of taking high resolution pictures and films. It wasn’t a flagship model; it was value for money, but nonetheless more than adequate for what I had in mind. After I had suggested that Jonas should brush his fangs, I made the master bedroom ready for us. I took a pair of his father’s jeans, from where they’d been hanging in the closet, and placed them as inconspicuously as I could on the window sill next to a flower pot. On my phone, I set to it to record video and placed it inside one of the pockets of the jeans, its top sticking out and the camera angled towards the bed. As long as the jeans didn’t move, and I couldn’t imagine that they would, it would document everything that was about to transpire on the bed from a sideline angle. So as to make it seem a little more normal, I took Hardcore a sweater from the same closet and placed that on the other side of the flower pot, and hurriedly decorated a couple of chairs in the room with various garments; thus making the room less tidy, but at the same time distracting from the outfit at the window beside the bed. The last piece of the puzzle was me blowjob fetching the large, white bedcover from our sofa bed and putting it on the king-sized bed of the master bedroom – for protection against highly probable stains. When my loveboy was finished in the bathroom, I called for him from inside the master bedroom. With forced serenity, acting as if I hadn’t scurried around the last few minutes, I proposed that we ought to try out the real bed – where so much of what we had heard had taken place. I struck up a brief and cheerful conversation: “Seeing as we’re in here, wanna pretend we are them instead of us?”. With a little hesitation, Jonas replied: “Okay”, and looked as well as moved towards me as I opened the closet. Standing shoulder to shoulder, or rather, my hip to his small shoulders, in front of the opened storage for clothes, I said: “If I’ll be your dad, then you can be my sister?”. He nodded. “Or should I be your dad, and Brunette you simply be your good-looking self?”, I asked. Initially somewhat confused, as if not at first understanding that he would imagine himself doing stuff with his dad, he then comprehended and became shy, more teen so than before that is. While looking down at the floor, he quietly said: “Nah, can... can we just dress like them?”. In my head, it had been a fun question, and a tantalizing mental image, but it had backfired. I had ever so slowly been getting the boytoy out of his shell when he was around me, and it was unfortunate if I had nudged him a bit backwards to his old, closed-off self. I had no suspicion about there being any previous (sexual) trauma of the youngster, or that his father had been having incestual relations with him. No, he had most probably simply been a lonely, curious kid with a dominating father who had been berating instead of being supportive. I attempted, and moderately succeeded, to rescue the situation by starting the challenge of both getting to pick out the best outfit for the other from what was in display in the wardrobe. They hadn’t brought all that much to the cottage, but at least we had a little to choose from – and me more so than Jonas; Sandra had (understandably) a more extensive and varied selection of apparel with her. Them being bigger than us, respectively, I knew I would fit in Eric’s clothes, and Sandra’s would be too fetish big for Jonas. Content with our choices, I went into the other room and changed, thus adding to the roleplay. She had strength as well as femininity. I was not mathematician enough to be fetish blowjob able to calculate how much women I needed in servitude teen to avoid women wanting to be in servitude. Emma was way smarter than I gave her credit for. Lenny had already placed a collector behind her. “Nope, not so tough after all, was she?” is Wagner’s quip about this scene. Eventually we stopped trying and 10 years ago sex stopped altogether as my husband would work long hours leaving me Hardcore alone in our comfortable house. “The man who raped me was black.” “It feels great the more you can take.” I tell her. I even want to get married one day and have kids.” I looked back to the Brunette door, and she leaned against the frame. For the greater good.