Best Friend's Girlfriend Got Fucked In Indian Hotel
One of his hands was working on me. A silent pop sound relieved the stretched shirt that was holding my body. Before I realized, he removed the top half of my shirt’s buttons. He then concentrated on removing the rest of my shirt buttons.He moved the shirt apart, getting a view of my belly and my black laced brassier. Weirdly, I felt shy, but I did not cover up myself. It makes no sense to hide from him. He knows the complete geography of my body. He knows how my skin taste, even without any chocolate on it.He briefly admired the landscape of my beauty and kissed me again. He drove me crazy by kissing all over. I held his head against mine and playing with his hair. His hand was working hard on the only button on my jeans.As soon as he succeeded, he gently grazed my panties, pulled its strap up, and left it to hit my soft skin, making a tight slap sound. I got more excited, anticipating his hand to intrude into my jeans and play with me. A silent moan came out of me as an indicator. “Just call me ‘Masa,’ no need to be so formal. Here, please come this way so I can help you get ready for the best massage of your life.” Hmmm, "Best massage of my life?" I wondered what this “nuru” business would be like. Masa directed me to the side of a waterbed-like massage bed on the floor. Next to the massage bed was what looked like a bathing area one finds in public baths in Japan, a shower head and faucet with plastic seats and wash basins. This did not look like the standard massage table. It was just like the video clips I viewed on YouTube. My excitement and anticipation grew even more. Masa came up to me, placed his hands on my shoulders and said, “You are now in my hands for the best massage that you have ever had. Just relax and let me do the rest. You don’t have to do a thing.” With that, he started to remove my jacket. I was taken aback because this was not usual in a massage salon. But after the initial surprise, I decided to see where this was going. There’s always.
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