With my fingers on you, everything becomes true. Where to put them? On your stomach? In the hollow of your just size in the birth of your hips? On you... breasts? Is not it too fast? Every time, I give the impression of improvising, as in jazz, from a known and liked theme: the journey begins.My desire wants to meet yours, to make sure of it, to be delighted at the effect which it makes you. My hands slide on you at leisure, redraw you, sculpture you, half-open you; you shiver. I want it more: my. . He is short, looks like a k**, with a closely shaved head and a goatee, the “teen-ager” look. Moving his body closer to my wife’s, he slides one of his legs between hers, causing her short skirt to rise up so high her panties are showing. She lets him get in real close while his thigh squeezes right up to her crotch.Their bodies undulating in unison, her underwear must be brushing against him. I see her closing her eyes and biting her lower lip; a sure sign her body is enjoying his moves.. More

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