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I racked my hung-over mind and stumbled through a misty fog bank of blurry memories filed away in last night's memory folder. Exhibits A-D: Four steaming and delicious mugs of hot buttered rum and mom homemade brandy (a federal offense). Exhibits E-F: Two contests to determine who could take the most hits from a marijuana-filled hookah in sixty seconds. It became the loser's task to equal the winner's toke total. I won the first series and lost the second. Exhibits G: Seraina Hardcore Videos and my lady love shuffling a deck of cards and suggesting we relax by playing a round of strip poker. Then the record fades to Mommy Got Boobs gray, too fuzzy to read or remember. I wonder, did I have a good time? Hangovers are major impediments to thoughtful contemplation. A hangover is also a significant impediment to meditation. Instead of contemplating my navel, I stared at the ceramic tiles between my bare feet and tried not to throw up and tried to mature make sense out of the fast forty-eight hours. I held my head between my hands and stared at the bathroom flooring between my toes. I was startled to notice the colony's toilet paper carried designs which matched the natural floral patterns baked into the ceramic squares. In the sport of survivalism, you win if you don't die. While I was miles away from mastering details of play, I had a hunch there were no sections devoted to designer TP in any prepper's manual. My head hurt thinking about it. The joy I felt at no longer being Sheila's "guest-prisoner" quickly faded as the ongoing war in my gut went nuclear. I sort of recall a post-midnight kitchen raid as my girlfriend, Seraina, StarShine, and I foraged for snacks and goodies. Anything to feed a wicked case of the munchies. Kitchen-Karma got its revenge as my stomach bubbled, gurgled, and churned like a science project gone bad. I clamped my jaws shut and fought the urge to hurl. "Oh my fucking word, this sucks," I moaned. I couldn't think of a worse way to start a day. Foolish me. Diarrhea, the third Rider of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, hangover style, took its turn next to Nausea in a neck-and-neck run for the finish line first. As I knelt before Hardcore the porcelain throne, two fears overcame me. First, I thought I might die. Then, I was fearful I might live. For the next fifteen minutes, I bent double, maybe triple, as I wrung myself out and drained the swamp from both ends. Memo to self: booze is MILF not your friend. When I stepped under the hot shower to help me to take my mind off my misery, Darlene called out, "You better hustle. Sheila wants to see you in her office in thirty minutes." Ninety minutes and four cups of coffee later, feeling like a wide-awake dishrag, I knocked at Sheila's door and waited for an answer. "You're late," Sheila announced with a frown as I entered her office. I stood before the desk. "Better late than never." "Better never late, take a seat," Sheila replied as she shuffled and arranged the stack of papers on her desk. "Congratulations, you're now a citizen of Liberty Mountain's Sisterhood. Welcome to our society." She gave me an ironic smile. “As I thought she would Hardcore be! Tony would normally have been mature quite aroused by this, but he found himself getting more upset. She could feel its head slide past her cheek with each stroke, the tight skin of its cum canal between her breasts and against her pussy as she held her womanhood against its massive exterior while its pace quickened. We dried off, I Hardcore Videos got her to calm down, and then we snuck our way back to her room. I thought about that in bed that night. “I know,” groaned Xanth. I'm MILF so filled and fulfilled! I'm going to let this nice man look at you. "Sorry," he added. She left little streaks of her lipstick on my shaft. “No problem Miss Davidson” I nod as I awkwardly left the room. She sat on the bed and kicked off her boots while mom I undid my shirt and peeled it off. There stood Aunt Sheen, peeking in from the Mommy Got Boobs half-open door to her daughter’s room.