Juicy Divya In Shower Showing Natural Indian...

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In spite of myself my hands tightened their grip (Steve on one side, the couch on the other) and I came with this nameless guy. "Mmmmmmmmmm yeahhh!" Was that ME?The guy pulled out. A little cum dripped from his now soft skin as he stepped back. Before I could have another thought, another guy took his place. I felt my wet pussy lips part for another strange cock.This guy was older. He was in great shape, but from his graying hair I guessed near 40. Like some kind of businessman. His thrusting was businesslike too. Firm fast and no nonsense. His cock felt a little bigger than the last guy. It slid easily in my soggy hole. He kept his hands behind his back like I'd seen on some pornos. Just thrusting away. He slowed down a couple times when he was going to come, then started up again faster. I guess I wasn't too wet because when I felt my pussy tighten again to come, he looked surprised for a second and blew his load.Almost before we both stopped coming the businessman slipped out and. Two weeks into my nightmare found me a shrunken, pathetic shell of my former, robust self. I was, again, two inches shorter at 5'8". My muscles were almost completely gone. My Adam's Apple had vanished into my slimmer, ever more graceful neck, raising my voice to a childish pitch. My hands were femininely slim; my feet wore ladies slippers comfortably. While before, I was being treated as a lady, now I was being treated as a female. When the ladies-in-waiting brushed my shoulder-length hair, or washed my smooth, child-like face, they would do it in the bath with me! Naked! As was I! You see, by now my cock was also gone. It had withdrawn into the folds of what had been my man-sack. Outwardly, I looked like them. Since I was no longer capable of an erection, they no longer felt any need for modesty. No dream of Eros that I had had when a man compared to the parade of naked female flesh that I saw for hours of every day, but it brought me no pleasure, for I was indeed,.
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The sword halted in its path. The raider looked towards the source, and smiled. He sheathed his sword and stepped towards him. ‘What do you have, grandpa, that is worth this boy’s life? A play? An operetta?’ His hands shaking, the old man reached into his coat, and pulled out a thick stack of papers, yellowed with age, wrapped in twine. Across the front page, handwritten in dark ink, were the words, ‘The Tragedy of Pyrrhus.’ ‘It’s my novel,’ he admitted sadly. ‘I’ve been writing it for years. Please, take it, and leave this town in peace.’ He unknotted the twine and leafed through the pages with a trained eye. The edges of his lips tugged upwards higher and higher as we read through. He redid the knot, and tossed it back to one of his men. ‘This should bring in a good income. You have ransomed your village’s safety today, old man.’ He drew his sword out of its scabbard slowly, the glistening, metallic cry filling the silence for far too long. ‘But we can’t risk competition.’ Crimson.

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