Indian Honey Gets Screwed On The Table

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.. but the smell and the feeling of Janets shit got me horny again, so I had another good wank before I went into the shower. The thought of using the shit as a lubricant even added to the sensation. This time, I needed longer to reach climax, but the orgasm felt great nonetheless. After I was back to reality, now, with the sexual energy being gone, I could face the problems at hand. First, I took a good shower, washing away the shit at my body with lots of water and showering gel - I got myself optical clean soon, but couldn't get away the smell completely. Then, with my body being shit-free at last, I inspected my clothing... the underwear was shitty. I didn't feel like explaining the matter to my parents, so I cleaned and washed them as well as I could... I couldn't get them completely clean, of course, but with some luck, the remaining brown color was too light to get noticed. (I had that luck.... no one ever questioned me about my underwear being unusual dirty.) With my shirt and. So far, so good, he thought to himself: no police, no weapons, no kicking, no yelling, no gunplay. He nodded at that last little report on high school scheduling, hoping not to have to say one word more than was absolutely necessary, and allowing her to become comfortable with him being physically near her again. Unfortunately for Robert, she said nothing, which just aped up the tension. The pause seemed to last forever, with the two of them, grown man and pregnant teenager, standing there, in the big mall, with an electric force field arcing between them. “I guess Megs told you . . .”, she said, using Megan’s nickname, to which he immediately said, “Yes, sweetheart; that’s why I’m here.”“Sweetheart”? “Sweetheart”? “What possessed me to say that?”, he thought. “God, I am such a fucking moron”, he continued, only in his head: “Do I take it back? Explain it somehow? Shit! What now?”The painful silence fell again over the small congregation, and the tension increased.
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She caught my attention not only by the fact that she was incredibly beautiful, but also by her peculiar way of walking. Two aluminum crutches were tucked under her arms, making her look vulnerable. I stopped, stared at these old fashioned devices, and wondered when I had last seen someone walking on crutches. It must have been many years ago. She looked around her, then cautiously descended the two steps to the sidewalk. She was wearing a black leather skirt and a blue blouse. Her feet were clad with black, high-heeled pumps. I was able to see the graceful curves of her calves and thighs under her patterned stockings. She cringed as a car whooshed above us, then set out on her way. I followed her at a safe distance. She was walking swiftly, using her crutches like an expert. At first, I didn’t see anything wrong with her legs. It seemed to me that she didn’t need crutches at all. This impression was enhanced by the fact that she was putting weight on both her legs. Subsequently, I.

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