NRI Cheating House Wife Oral Sex With Her Lover

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If there are enough comments iam sure she will write more. This story is definetely not for peopleunderage. So if you are too young or don?t like TG-Stories stop readingBy Domme Mistress and GretaFrom Gary to Greta Part IXMademoiselle Claudette appeared one afternoon for my modeling session.Petite, unassuming, with deep black hair and thick eyebrows, blue eyes,very small tits, white T-shirt under which I could see a 30A bra, tightjeans and painted toe nails on feet in sandals. She said my wife hadinvited her over for dinner and since she had gotten off work early, shehad decided to come over. I poured some wine for her. She lit a cigarette.Everyone in Paris seems to smoke incessantly. She sat on the sofa andmotioned me to come close. She admired me and told me to take off myclothes. I did and immediately my cock started to throb and ache andpulsate so hard I feared it would rip out the rings and release itselffrom the bondage of the anti-erection chain.Mademoiselle Claudette started. “Hey, you are not going to lick my pussy?” Shyamala pleaded to her son. Vishal looked up without letting off her boob from his mouth and shook his head as if he wasn’t going to do. “Please,” Shyamala kept pleading. “You are very good in pleasing me with your tongue.”Vishal did not respond as his mouth jumped from one boob to another while his hands relentlessly squeezed the other boob almost making Shyamala groan in pain. Shyamala’s legs went around her son’s waist as if to lock him and in the process his hard dick managed to hit the slit on her pussy and got inside just an inch with ease and comfort.“It’s in, It’s in,” screamed Shyamala. Vishal took a deep breath and humped on his mother as his long dick dived inside her moist pussy like a knife getting inside a butter bowl. Soon, he started pumping his mother gently to begin with and soon he was gathering the momentum. He was gasping for breath and decided to let his mouth away from his mother’s boobs. For the umpteenth time he felt.
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She had all of the appearances and attitudes of someone who lived in the late sixties or early seventies and the unlikely name of Serendipity Sorenson to go with her appearance. She wore a long skirt over which she wore something that was a cross between a huge knitted sweater and a short knitted dress. Its main purpose in life, I thought, was to conceal from the public gaze the shape of the body beneath. Her hair was long and, despite the Nordic heritage suggested by her name, brown and curly, tumbling over her face in a mass, almost hiding her features. These facial features were further hidden from view by a pair of glasses that had started life as the bottoms of soda bottles. She wore no makeup and her skin had a freshly scrubbed look that was somehow appealing to me. My room-mate was, on my promise of doing an assignment for him, off at the nearest bar displaying his beer consuming prowess when she came to my room for her regular tuition. I was explaining to her the beauty in.

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