Horny Tamil House Wife Fucks Her Husband’s Friend

Marshall picked up the slim black-leather purse, which had fallen to the ground. Nice leather, he thought as he undid the clasp, good workmanship. Sandra clearly knew how to buy quality accessories, but he had noticed that from the first, the understated earrings and the simple gold ankle bracelet. He opened the purse. That terra incognita for men, ever present, never quite understood, joked about and also feared. “Cell phone, cell phone, where art thou?” he asked quietly. Cosmetics, address book, brush, Certs, checkbook, pack of Kleenex, his fingers brushed against several tampons and he swooned. Hers. Such intimacy, even unintentional, stirred him. The slim packages next to his hand gave him a secret, guilty thrill. Hers, he thought again. Maybe Sandra didn’t find the topic sexy at all, but the sheer womanly mystery intrigued and at times aroused him. He could be detached about such matters – but not always. He glanced at Sandra, still sassing the totally deflated thief prostrate. .." statement. Well, she told me she would explain things Monday morning so I would just have to wait.As I sat there finishing the last of my coffee and not looking forward to my task ahead, I heard the side gate open. My side gate squeaks a bit when it's opened. I keep meaning to oil it but then I kind of like the "advance warning" a squeaky gate gives me so I put it off. Now my gate told me someone was in my yard."I'm in the backyard!" I called out figuring it was either a utility man or some salesman or something. I was pleasantly surprised when I heard a woman's voice "Alan?" just as Stacy peered around the corner. She was wearing one of those maternity style tops with the squared off neckline that left a generous amount of the tops of her breasts exposed and easily accessible for breastfeeding. The top draped loosely over her swollen breasts and belly and hung so that with her sweatpants riding low, the lower part of her swollen belly was visible.As she neared me, it was apparent.
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