A Indian Desi Girl Fucking Herself

Whom are you wearing?" Hunter."As she thought of Richard, of his bright, warm eyes and his friendly, open smile, Monique fought a pang of grief. Richard Hunter hadn't been a famous fashion designer like Guccio Gucci, Gianni Versace, or Gabriel Scarvelli. He hadn't been a celebrity - of fashion or anything else. He'd been only a loving man of some means who'd loved Monique with all his heart, all his soul, all his mind, and all his strength. He'd also been the most generous man she'd ever known. When she'd confided in him about wanting to change her sex, he'd not only understood, but he'd also encouraged her, even at a cost of several thousands of dollars of his own money, paying for the estrogen, the voice coaching lessons, the electrolysis, the operation that had reduced the size of her larynx, allowing her a more feminine voice, and had offered to pay for the sex-change surgery as well. Monique had no doubt that Richard would have done so, too, had she gone through the final stage. I gave her another dozen hard swats before pulling using her hair to pull her up for another attempt at an apology. Mom was wrong. It took her five rounds. It would probably have taken even more if not for her father showing her some sort of paddle I was to use next to ensure a change in her attitude. I saw real fear in her eyes as I was handed the paddle. I couldn’t see any difference. Maybe there wasn’t any but something psychological. Whatever it was, she found her voice again. Hear screams sounded like I was slowly pulling off strips of thick plastic that had been super-glued to the inside of her pussy’s inner lips. When I stopped paddling her she dropped to her knees, looked up at me with her red, tear-stained eyes and begged me to forgive her. She would do anything to show how sorry she was, even suck my dick or let me stick in in her anywhere I wanted. Every word she said was dripping with polite sincerity. Her father holding yet another new paddle that appeared to ensure she.
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