I Fucked My Indian Daughter In The Kitchen porn video
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I grab a big handful of her soft golden hair and pull her head back, firmly but without pain. I use my other hand to steady the tip of my cock just inside the entrance to her wet, twitching butt hole. “Then take it all.” I say, tugging back on her hair, forcing her to move back, impaling herself on my hot, throbbing cock. She inhales in short, incremental gasps as she slowly allows her butt to consume me, half-inch by half-inch. Her mouth is wide open but she is quite unable to form any words. My grip on her hair remains firm and insistent, ensuring continual progress. She is caught between fear and anticipation, on a knife edge of pleasure and trepidation. She is not in pain but feels that she cannot be stretched wider, cannot take any more, yet cannot bear to stop. Surely she will pass out with the height of ecstasy if it continues any further. Just as she is sure she must stop or she will faint, she feels the touch of my hips against her skin and knows I am fully inside. “Oh God,. ‘To who?’ She demanded. ‘That’s the thing. The lights were off and I couldn’t see who!’ I nearly growled. ‘But he said his name was Sylar, but like I believe that for a second!’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because I already looked through the yearbooks! And nobody and I mean nobody is named Sylar! And he said that he came to this school!’ I was still upset over the fact but like I could change that. ‘You like him!’ She whispered. ‘I do not!’ I said to quickly. ‘What if it’s his middle name?’ She grinned mischievously. I bit my lip. It was a good possibility. ‘Well how the hell am I going to find him? Ask every boy their middle name is Sylar?’ I blasted. I needed a swim, but I shot that idea down instantly. I didn’t want to be embarrassed from my head to my toes, or have what happened to me again. I frowned at my thoughts. ‘Sorry, just trying.’ She grumbled beside me. She clutched at her books to her chest like the book worm she was. Her reddish brown hair was swept away from her face from a scrunchie.
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