Fondling Indian Girlfriend While She Gets Dressed.

She put her hand under my chin, and gently turned my head back towards her, saw the tears, and wiped them away with her fingers – which made me start to cry. No one had ever shown me this kind of tenderness.“Tell me,” she commanded.So, I told her about how Father had died when I was just twelve, about how Mother's new partner and his two sons who moved in when I was seventeen, and how they had abused me. How I had left home, and come to Amsterdam. How there was no one I could turn to, no one I could ask for help or rely on.“I feel so alone. And I’m scared much of the time…” I said, and started sobbing.She moved over, put her arm around me, pushed my head onto her chest, and held me, rocking me and making soothing noises, stroking my hair. And waited.When I finally ran down and stopped, she turned my face up again – and kissed me. At first, her lips were firmly closed. Then she gave a small moan, and opened her lips, inviting me to open mine. After a moment of surprise, I did.Her kiss. "Lucy has to tell Mummy what shewants." Please Mummy. I need to be milked. Please! Please Mummy!"She smiled once more."First of all, Mummy needs cleaning. I can't do anythinglike this, can I?"She looked down between her legs. So did I. I knew what shewanted. Sandra removed my bonnet. My humiliation wasalready complete. I had already accepted everything else. Ineeded to come and this was the only way. I leaned forwardand began to lap up the juices with my tongue. Jane ran herhands through my hair."There's a good girl, Lucy. Drink everything down. Mummyand Daddy's juices taste lovely together, don't they? Yes,that's it. Drink it all down for Mummy. Clean me all up."The problem was that I loved it. It was fantastic. I lovedthe taste in my mouth. I loved drinking from my wife'spussy. I loved making her happy. I wanted her to want me. Icontinued to bury my face in her cunt until I had drunkevery drop. The taste was wonderful. Yes, I knew it wasDerek's juices too but it only made me more.
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