Desi Xxx MMS Of A Lusty Shopkeeper Fucking His Customer

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Nobody's gonna believe you're my mom now." Thank you, honey. That's very nice of you to say. Anyway, I'd appreciate it if you'd help keep my little secret for the moment." Sure, Mom," Terry agreed. "So Kenny helped you do all that, huh? Wow!" So do you need any help with your stuff?" Robin changed the subject."Naw, I got it," she said.I heard the front door open again and the basement door right behind it."Kenny!" Robin hissed. "Kenny! Get up here!"I hustled upstairs, and Robin practically threw me out the back door."Tomorrow?" I whispered as I stumbled down the steps."Wednesday," Robin whispered back before she closed the door on me.Robin's SUV arrived at the park on Wednesday and disgorged not one but two blondes. Robin had decided to go back to her T-shirt and shorts, probably so she wouldn't scandalize poor, innocent Terry. Poor, innocent Terry was wearing the same outfit as her mother, the white shorts highlighting her tanned legs."Hi, Kenny," she came bouncing up ahead of her. I grabbed her hair with both hands and maneuvered her head, pushing her into me, then pulling her off, gasping for air. When I’d had enough of that, I pulled her back off of me, and moved down on her. I remember kissing her flat little titties, nibbling on her hard nipples and then moving to her stomach and hips. I looked up at her. Her head was pressed back in the pillows, her eyes closed, and a hesitant smile on her lips. I positioned myself between her legs, and lowered my head into her loins. I kissed the inside of her thighs and ran my tongue up and down the sides of her dripping pussy lips. I could feel Laura’s hips moving to meet me, and could hear her moan softly, her breath quick. I hovered over her pussy, smelling her juices—so sweet—and let my hot breath tease her momentarily. Then I put my mouth over her pussy, let my saliva flow over her, and began running my tongue between her lips, then deep into her. My tongue prodded and swirled, my nose pressed into her limited.
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My wife was very tall, towering over me at about six feet, like some amazonian caught as a prize in war. But Miss Gilda was short, and stocky. Her breasts were large, proportionate to her frame, and her hair was a tangled mess of orange-red that dangled down to her buttocks. Staring at it, as I perhaps too often did, reminded me of an old print I once saw, by a surrealist. It was supposed to be a copy of Vermeer’s Lacemaker, but had come out as a depiction of the artist’s sister, naked, bending over and about to be penetrated by several imperial phalluses. The sublimity of the artistic moment, it must be noted, is that in the frozen time of the painting the young girl is never exploited: she is only about to become thus violated. Each time I stared at the round, slightly plump, and pleasantly short figure of Miss Gilda, I seemed to be ensnared in this very same moment.It is to be supposed, I think, that each woman knew that I was merely using them for the ends of my own ambition. But.

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