Hot Mamatha Romance With Boy Friend In Swimming Pool-1

“Goddamn it,” he said, “this is wrong. I’m leaving.” “Fine; leave.” I said slipping out of my cami. “Why did u do that?” “Need to put a bra on, cami is much to revealing under my sweater. My nipples stand straight out and we can’t have that can we?” I brushed past him and moved to my dresser watching him closely. He stood watching me in the doorway of my bathroom; watched as I slathered lotion on my legs, watched as I started to slather my arms. “Hey Zack, I mean Dad, can u get my back?” He mumbled something about “this being so wrong” but came and stood behind me and started rubbing lotion into my shoulders and back. “Mmmmm, that feels good.” “Julie,” he said quietly, “I can’t believe I’m admitting this, your mother would kill me; you’re stunning. You’re right; I can’t keep my eyes off of you.” “So what are you going to do about it daddy dearest?” I said turning to face him. I squealed when he picked me up and carried me over to the bed, tossing me down lightly. “This,” he said. We both moaned. The hardness of his cock felt magical and magisterial, authoritative, against my lips. I experienced it right then as an instrument of great power, one which I wished to win over and wished to serve. “Viens avec moi” he whispered, and we hurried to a stall. Me on the seat; he standing before me, this time with his pants down, his cock out. No giant member, but a good size nonetheless: and so hard and so inviting. In future times I would give him a blow job with a relaxed and measured pacing, riding to a slow climax. Not this time. I did take a minute to tongue his length, lick his balls. What captivating smells and tastes! But I needed his cock at the back of my throat. As I kissed his glans, tongued his opening already tasting of precum, Jean growled “Vite, je t’en supplie”, which was all I needed to slide him into my mouth: not all at once, but as soon as lubrication and breathing would allow. As his cockhead came to press open my throat, I could feel and smell his.
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