Cute Desi Wife Captured Nude Changing Dress

The young man approached under my glare of hatred and condemnation. He slid his helmet from his head revealing a shock of short blond hair matted with sweat. He ruffled a dirty hand through it as he cast about the room. He took up an old headscarf, one that had once belonged to my mother, and knelt before me. He dabbed and wiped at the carnal residue high up on my thighs. I turned my head away. I sensed the delicate touch of the cloth briefly against the ruined place between my legs. He then pulled the tattered remnants of my skirt over my nakedness. But there was no need. Modesty and shame had become only words to me. Achingly small, and weak, and meaningless words. Laughter and guttural jests in the other rooms of my home were punctuated by the crash of breaking furniture and glass. But here it was quiet. My eyes still fixed on the wall, I waited. Moments passed and the quiet endured. When finally I turned, the soldier was still on his knees by my bed, his face buried in his hands. It has been too long since I’ve tried to speculate my inner working on the page. I think I let go of the idea that my words were worth the print. Tonight however, I am writing for me. It doesn’t matter what anyone has to say about that. Please go on, critique my work, and tell me it is a trashy piece of all the things wrong in the world today. I want to hear your voice. I look only at the screen as I write, because looking at my body reminds me that I am something more than the letters forming on the screen: Finger tips, clothing, a temperature to this body, and the itch on my left arm. These are the things that help make up for me. If I’m to be completely honest, there is a lump in my throat, and a tension to my core. These mediocre words are only forming the distraction from the things which I beg reality to release me from. I beg so hard that I even imagine a different ending. There is knock on my door, which was strange, because everyone was asleep the last time I checked. My.
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