Khushboo Bhabi Fucking On Live Part 3

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I knew my height; Father marked my bedroom door post at random intervals. I knew my shoe size was large for my age, that I would grow as tall, possibly taller, than my father. I knew my hands were small, too small to span an octave on Mother's piano. My uncircumcised penis was one hundred and eighteen millimeters in length when erect. I also knew the circumference of my head at birth, thirty four centimeters.I didn't understand the significance of this, except Father once called me, I believe he was refering to me in that instance, a big-headed little bastard. I don't believe he knew I was within the carrying distance of his voice, nor did I understand the significance of his words. A bastard I certainly was not; big-headed, I certainly was. I confirmed this by comparing my head to my peers. Mine was larger, by several centimeters to a dozen, depending upon the boy measured. I didn't ask any girls, therefore my hasty research may possibly be flawed, not that I felt much concern for. She watched Maddi’s pupils widen as her naked body came into view. “I just can’t seem to get comfortable.”Maddi’s heart skipped a beat once Savannah’s light caramel complexion came into view full. She drank in every curve that complimented each of her chocolate areola and flawless skin. As much as Maddi resisted “falling for” any of her targets, she could hardly deny the raw attraction she felt for Savannah. “It’s okay.” Maddi smiled. “That body is why we’re in so much trouble.” She unbuttoned her blouse.“You’re gonna blame me?” Savannah smiled and brushed her backhand against the light wisps of ebony hair between her legs. “I’m flattered, Maddi.” She blushed before turning her head away. “I really messed up this time.”“What do you mean?” Maddi let her tights and skirt fall to the carpet with a muffled plop. Her nakedness hung in flaccid modesty for a moment before she slid between the covers.“Breaking my purity promise to my grandparents— to God.” Savannah caressed her hardening.
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Stephen Rotkoff grew up with sex ever-present in his life. His mother, Edit had been a battle hardened brothel keeper in Hamburg, when she and her husband took the decision to up sticks and go to England in the miserable, starving aftermath of the Great War. They bribed their way onto a tramp steamer and fetched up in Birmingham via Liverpool. Stephen was a menopausal child – born when his mother was in her late forties. This indignity was the culminating insult. She was a hard, brutal woman who despised everyone around her. Above all she hated and despised her husband to the depth of her being. Rotkoff”s early childhood was made hideous by her tirades of screaming insults – calling her husband a weakling, a coward, an eunuch, a pansy, on any or no provocation. The child soon learned not to be anywhere in sight when he heard these virago howls. If his father saw him at these times he would inflict a savage beating on the helpless child, so Stephen went into hiding and did not.

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