Desi Indian Wife With Stranger

Denise had paid her to touch up her make-up through out the day. All the girls went upstairs to Denise's bedroom and got into their gowns. Once they were all dressed, they helped Denise on with her gown. Denise was wearing a mermaid style wedding gown. It was sleeveless and the whole front of the dress was beaded. Denise looked like a princess. “You look absolutely gorgeous,” Lisa commented. Denise walked to the mirror and was very happy with her reflection and started to cry. “Why are you crying? Don’t mess up your make-up.” “The make-up artist will meet me at the church for touch-ups. Don’t worry everything will be fine.” “The limos are all down stairs. Michael is here waiting for you. He said he wanted to talk to you. Should I tell him to come upstairs? Will see you at the church. You look absolutely beautiful.” “Thank you, Jackie. Thank you girls. Tell Michael to come up.” The girls left to go to the church and Michael came up the stairs and knocked on the door. Denise. With every stroke we hide from contrition. With every gasp and languid sigh we tease regret, daring it to find us and defying it as it approaches. And it will find us. I’m sorry, it will. But if we’re going to pay for it, we are determined to earn our punishment. We fear what we’ll feel later, but we surrender to what we experience now. My senses are in overload. I feel the warmth of your trembling flesh against me. I smell the sweetness in your silky black hair. Trilling groans ache from your throat after every deep breath you take. I close my eyes as I listen to them, like a hymn of an angel in ecstasy. It’s intoxicating and addicting. I loom above you once more, churning inside of you. Zealous thrusts of my hips selfishly coax more and more anxious gasps from you. I feel your bent knees sliding upward and tightening against my torso, guiding my motions. Your fingers dive through my hair and scratch down my back. Every one of your intensifying and brazen actions implore me for.
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