Riding My Desi Fat Hubby’s Cock Until Creampied

You turned slowly on your swivel bar chair and looked over the rim of your glass as you held my gaze. Then you put your glass on the edge of the bar and did something I have never seen you do. You uncrossed your legs, and re-crossed them. And I knew why you had made the little trip. Game on, Sharon Stone. You thanked me for your drink and we exchanged a few pleasantries. Cool, but flirtatious. Hot, yet publicly acceptable. You turned back to the television and we waited the decent interval . I could practically hear the clock tick. It was time. You thanked the bartender, cleared your check and came to your feet. I took a sip of my drink and smiled. Three short steps over to me. Your clutch purse opened. Then you slipped your room key into my jacket pocket, bent down and whispered your room number into my ear. Asked me to give you a five minute head start. I gave you 4 minutes. The room was dark. Two candles lit. And you were sitting up in bed against the headboard with your knees. She is petite, slim, no more than 5’2 or 3’. I smile as I looked at her shoes, Doc Martens, of course. The distinctive yellow stitching faded through wear and tear. The black tights she is wearing completing her attempt to subvert the uniform code. I watch as she wriggles her legs under the table. I imagine myself kneeling between her legs, a hand on her knees slowly spreading her legs apart.I feel her glance in my direction. Had I been too obvious? Was I staring at her? I quickly turn back to my papers and take a drink of my cooling cappuccino.CiciGod, I hate my life. Fucking school is such a drag, made even worse by having to wear these uniforms. I’m SIXTEEN fucking years old – shouldn’t I have learned to appropriately dress myself by now? At least they haven’t banned my boots yet. I’m pouting in my anger again, avoiding my homework, and drinking more caffeine than I should. I look down at the maths I’m supposed to be doing and snicker. What a joke. I’ve understood how to do these.
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