Desi Sex Web Series

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The scent of her body, the heat of her loins, the tickling of her hair... it is all real.My daughter. My lover. That's the reality.Noticing my thoughtful expression, my daughter Poornima draws up against me, placing her elbows on my chest and resting her beautiful face on her palms. She nibbles on my nose for a couple of seconds, before dropping her hands to her sides and downing her face into my chest."What are you thinking, Dad?"I kiss her forehead lovingly. The forehead that I had kissed many times as a father - the forehead that now belonged to me, her 'husband.'"If someone had told me three years ago, that I would be living like this with my daughter, I would have clobbered him. And now..."Flashback.The plane took off, and I sighed, waving like a little child at the lifting bird. For the seventh time in eleven years, I was seeing my wife off to her nursing station at a distant hospital in Saudi Arabia. And in spite of the fact that we had hardly been together for the last. The womanlooking back turned him on. He only wished he could still haveerections. He hadn't gotten off in real life for a while now. Thenagain, looking at the woman in the mirror, he felt proud. An erectionwould ruin the look. For a second, he considered never having one everagain. Would it be worth the costs? Maybe.His hands pressed at the skirt, flat and taunt between his thighs. Heturned and looked at how the skirt hugged his rear. He wondered aboutgetting more one-piece dresses. He certainly could afford a littleshopping after the mermaid session.Emerging from the ladies room, he strolled around the empty floor. Inplaces with no carpet, he enjoyed the click clack contacts of hisshoes. He loved how the skirt rustled against his stockings andlimited his stride. He relaxed enjoying the outfit. In fact, theskirt really did limit his stride. He took some more steps. It seemeda little overly hobbled. It felt so snug, but overall the dress fit soperfectly. How did.
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Her hair seemed controlled by clouds of unseen sylphs, whose fairy hands arranged each strand. What is more, she had the ability to convincingly portray a character on stage, and she has since become, I hasten to add, one of Britain’s most successful and revered stage actresses. But this is by the by. She was undressing, proudly claiming that an actress did not need to cower behind a peacock-screen to disrobe. Her breasts were as perfectly pleasing as the bulges in her dress suggested, and the gentle curve of her belly was simply exquisite. She was talking confidently until the time came for her to remove her knickers. They were expensive looking, well-fitted, possibly French, but she paused and stood awkwardly still. ‘I can’t,’ she said. I fetched her a large glass of brandy from the cupboard, and she sat on the armchair, toying with a curl of her hair which had fallen lose about her ears. When she saw my concern, she told me, in strictest confidence, that I may not like her.

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