Why didn’t I want to stop Sumurumus Jacobson from doing whatever witch’s trickery She was up to and casting her spell, or whatever the hell it was, upon me? Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m no Hugh Hefner or Wilt the Stilt Chamberlain. I am also not some Puritanically prudish yokel who fell off the turnip truck before it even arrived at the sticks whose residents considered the heart of Amish country more sinful than Sodom and Gomorrah, Las Vegas, San Francisco, Hollywood, Chicago during prohibition, and Paris all rolled up into one hideously depraved den of decadent debauchery. Why did the idea of being my mother-in-law’s mind slave and sex toy make my heart pound and my cock throb more than all of the erotic experiences I’d ever had all put together? I felt more relaxed than I’d ever been in my whole life. I was more nervous than a sentient turkey living in the United States in early November. Yet, all these conflicting or contradictory or paradoxical thoughts, desires, and emotions seemed to make perfect sense as I gazed into those eyes and was being lulled into some kind of waking sleepiness by that voice of hers now ringing in my brain and echoing inside my mind. I hung on each syllable of her every word. My wife’s stepmother, Sumurumus Jacobson, varied her cadence, changed her pitch, and employed different volume levels. There was no possible way for me to correctly anticipate what She would say next or how she would next say it. All I could do was follow where She led and float along whence She carried me. Read more…