Indian BDSM Outdoor

I sort of startled. Waiting to take my order was a statuesque black haired woman of maybe twenty-five. She had short shorts on and seemed to have endless legs. I hate fuck-me shoes (apparently unlike most men) and she had Roman sandals on with straps that went around her ankles. Other than hating fuck-me shoes, I have no feeling either way for shoes in general; shoes are shoes. Except for Roman sandals. Maybe when I was sixteen years old a teenager in Roman sandals played with my willy and now that I am able to actually get a hard-on, Roman sandals are a trigger. In any case, she had big dark eyes that I just wanted to stare into. Her wide mouth held a big smile. She looked at me and repeated: "Are you ready to order?" I swallowed, and she could clearly see that she had made an impression, but I suspected that that was pretty much how men always reacted to her. "Can I have a bowl with one scoop of pistachio and two of your delicious vanilla parfait?" I asked. "So you've been here. In the far distance through eyes almost swollen shut under the unrelenting sun the lone rider thought he saw smoke, but he couldn't be sure. The very air around him moved as if it were water, waving and making anything beyond a few feet blurred and indistinct. For more than an hour the rider would lift his weary head and peer into the distance, hoping against hope that is was more than a mirage, a something that wasn't really there. At long last, through squinting swollen eyes, he spied the outline of a roof. His mind slowed by the sun and heat, it took time for it to click in his mind. A roof. That meant a building and people, unless, he grimaced, it was a ghost town. His tongue lick his cracked and dried lips as his voice croaked in his urging of his exhausted mount.Time passed as horse and rider moved slowly closer. Finally he was able to clearly see more than just a roof. It was a house, single and lonely, but still a house all alone just like him in the wasteland. Smoke curled.
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