“I enjoy being a girl,” sang Bruce as he admired his new manicure.
Slam! The bedroom door flew open. It was Kris. She was livid, clutching the latest issue of “Paparazzi Weekly.” She flung the tabloid at him.
On the cover were two photos—him strolling the beach in a silky robe, and her jogging without makeup. “Sexy Bruce Outshines Dumpy Kris” screamed the headline.
“Satisfied, hubby?,” she snarled. With both hands she tightly squeezed Bruce’s tits. As he struggled to break free, she grabbed his cock.
“I’ve got one thing you still don’t,” she yelled. “Do you miss my big cunt?”
Bruce could feel himself getting hard. “Yes,” he gasped. “Let me lick my mommy…”

After their love-making, Bruce and Kanye lay naked on the gently-rolling waterbed. Sex had been incredible! But Bruce couldn’t deny his sense of guilt. “What about Kim?,” he whispered.
“She and I don’t fuck with no ego shit,” replied Kanye. “We be like Picasso. I’m the voice of my generation…” His eyes were glowing and saliva was bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
Bruce knew that the only way to stop Kanye’s ranting was to distract him. He lowered his head and forcefully began giving Kanye a blowjob.
Kanye went quiet, but his mind was still racing. With a discreet click, he turned on the video camera on his Apple Watch. “Oh, baby, don’t stop,” he groaned…

Taking a drag off his Virginia Slim, Bruce peered into the Malibu sunset, his tiger-striped caftan gently blowing in the Pacific Ocean breeze.
Impulsively, he unsnapped the halter strap and the garment fell to the floor, revealing his nude body. At 65, he still had the fit build of an Olympic athlete, and his newly formed breasts were full and luscious.
Slowly he began rubbing his nipples with his well-manicured fingers. Soon he was moaning in delight.
His ecstasy was suddenly shattered by a familiar voice: “Hello, foxy mama.”
Bruce jumped in shock. Behind him stood Kanye! His eyes were lustful and his hand was grabbing the crotch of his tight leather jeans…