Hot Married Milf Sucking Cock In Hotel Room

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I walked down the little stairs to the landing and my eyes seemed to be attracted to see what Michael was doing. My heart kept on pounding and pounding. It seemed to pound faster when I got to him closer and before I could even realize where my treacherous feet had taken me. I was already standing in front of his table. Michael looked up to me. His brown eyes seemed to be lighter at front. He broke into a smile, ‘Yes?’ At first I wondered what he was agreeing to. Did I ask him something without realizing it? ‘Miss…’ he looked at my name tag that hung on my neck, ‘Miss Lim?’ ‘Um, Andrea,’ I corrected at him impulsively. I didn’t like to be called by my first name, it made me feel old. I knew that it was strange of me to think like that but that was how I am. ‘Oh yes, Miss Andrea Lim, how can I help you?’ he asked me. You can help by kissing me, I thought quickly but then mentally erased that scandalous thoughts. ‘Um, it’s nothing really,’ I paused, noticing that everybody had left. His lund was very motta and lamba. I even couldn’t wrap my fingers around him. He whispered in my ears that many women had trouble to swallow his lund in their choots especially Chinese women. I thought to myself that I should just give him a blow job rather fucking his lund because there’s no way..I can choud his lund most likely he’s be chouding me.While I was thinking, he suggested since its beautiful day we have sex in park somewhere. That made me hornier. I told him that I love chousing lunds; so today let me just chouse your lund and next time he can choud me. I could feel his motti unglis in my choot and my legs weakening. While finger fucking me, he told me that many women wasn’t able to make him cum in their mouth because his lund is hard to chouse. But before going any further, he asked me to walk with him to a nearby store. We walked into store, where he picked small oil bottle. I was getting much wetter because I knew that oil was for me to rub on his lund and then choud.
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It was Nocturne, something about the Cold War and a conspiracy theory, he had told me. I tried to put away everything, but I left reminders here and there, most hidden from any guests. In my own way, that’s how I held on to him. I remember the day I took the last box up to the attic. It was filled with baseball cards he had collected as a boy. He said one day when we had a son, he’d give them to him. I put the box on the floor and stood there. Until that point I hadn’t truly faced the fact that he was gone. Maybe it was the shock wearing off, I don’t know, but as I stared out the attic window to the driveway below it hit me. My husband was dead. My legs may have well crumbled beneath me. I dropped to the floor and laid my chest across the box, my arms beneath my face. I cried. Harder than I did the day the Sheriff’s department called to tell me about the accident, harder than at the funeral and all the days since then. I cried for him, for us, for everything that we’d never have..

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