Her structure is 38-32-40. She used to wear only saree. I’m 32-28-34. My mom told me to go to her house for stitching the dress and if possible stay...over there for a day and get stitched and come. I too agreed and went to her house by morning 10am. She was doing some work and told to sit in sofa and watch TV. She came by 10.40. She just started talking in a ordinary way like how is my mom, me like that. I informed her that I have come to get my dress stitched. I was in Shirt and skirt. She was. The stranger dominating her would communicate with her via the internet. While the individual's orders and degrading comments were fed through an eerily clinical sounding speech synthesiser, coming through loud and clear on a speaker, the video feed was an amateur operation limited to a handful of silent pictures every second. No one except Rob could see her cute writhing or hear her arousing moans and helpless protests until he released the higher quality recording on their FTP site an hour. The feminist in her could never bring herself to do it. The thought that Dario may simply bugger her, right there and then, just because he could, drove her to desperation. “Please, Dario…... not my arse….please don’t fuck my arse” she trembled as his fingers pushed against her quivering hole. But he didn’t care. There was no respite, no relief. Dario pushed his fingers inside her. At first one, then two, finally three big, meaty fingers twisting and probing, stretching her bum, preparing it. Jessi was dripping wet now, lightly bucking against my fingers. “Fuck, babygirl, I didn’t think you’d be this tight after three k**s.” She grabbed my wrist with both hands now, humping my fingers. “Keg … keg … kegels,” she said, pressing her lips against my ear. She groaned and shivered, “I’d be screaming so loud if we were alone.” I stroked in and out, working my fingers deep.Jessi turned her mouth to my shoulder and bit down hard as her pussy and legs clamped down on my fingers. I started.
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