Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
My name is Chester and I am an architect. After ten years of an “ideal” marriage with a lady called Mildred, I had a fling with my secretary, whose name I won’t tell, and since I am not good at keeping secrets, my wife sued for divorce. I am not proud of the experience, so I won’t go into the “juicy” details here; besides, I don’t want to relive the emotional traumas and the economic hardships through which I had to go with my family. As for my secretary, she also left me. Although I don’t blame her, my professional performance was also affected. I had to hire another employee, not as attractive, driven by guilt. The adjustment period lasted a little more than a year, but I was able to make a comeback, after securing an ambitious renewal project of several government buildings.
My daughter, Michelle, showed an interest in modeling in her teenage years. The classes are expensive, and, also, I don’t like the idea that she might eventually pose for a fashion or sports magazine wearing bikinis or other scanty dresses, but I did not make an issue of it and paid up, in order to avoid heated arguments with her, or worst, with her mother. Some days, I drove her or picked her up at the academy. There I met her “runway” teacher. Her name is Daphne and she has the typical figure of a model, although she is a little short. I know that she won some local and regional beauty pageants, and she was a worthy finalist in international competitions. After her “reign,” she had a brief and stormy relationship with a singer of some modern musical genre, and after several scandalous and violent incidents that harmed her good name, she drew back from the public life, according to the tabloids, who during some time, chased her around with the traditional “paparazzi” in order to merely catch some pictures of her without make-up, in plain clothes and with a few extra pounds. When the celebrity press lost all interest in her, in favor of “fresh meat,” a renowned model, a little older than myself, opened her own academy, which includes an agency for alumni placement, and even with its own fashion design courses. In spite of Daphne’s reputation, she was hired to teach girls and teenagers.
Many times, I assumed responsibility for her schoolmates from the academy or her regular school, when they had to work on special projects, because they came along the days that I had visitation, according to the joint-custody agreement. One afternoon, she insisted on inviting her favorite teacher: Daphne! The only good thing about it was being in presence of her Ankara travesti beauty, since she was able to get back in shape as an example of discipline and self-control for her students, but her unexpected company made me feel uncomfortable. I feared that the topic of my divorce would arise and I suppose that she was apprehensive that I would only think of her in terms of the celebrity gossip in which she had been involved. In fact, I only wished to spend “quality time” with my daughter and not with a stranger, no matter how special she could be.
Michelle kept talking during the whole trip about her anecdotes in the academy and other girly topics, and Daphne merely remarked one thing or another along line of conversation that the child was setting. Sometimes, she looked at me, like anticipating that my daughter might say something that I might not approve, but I preferred to keep silent. I drove to an elegant restaurant, worthy of my “princesses,” where they showed off their etiquette and good manners. The girl assumed a more discreet tone and the teacher took the word, starting conversations about harmless topics, such as: art, music, good food and the weather. After having dinner and paying, I drove them to my apartment, where, after breaking the ice, I found the company of the former model more pleasing and comfortable. Furtively, I noticed more of her features: shoulder-length light-brown hair, almost round face, not very different from the girls in her class, light-green eyes, almost blue, hypnotic; lips not very thick, but very kissable, well-kept hands and feet, and a very sober dress, semi-formal.
After a few hours, my ex-wife called in advance to tell me that she was coming to pick up Michelle, so Daphne and I felt a little nervous that Mildred might find the teacher in such a cozy situation with my daughter and myself, so I told her:
“Miss, please, wait for me in the room, and Michelle, take your things and let’s go downstairs to wait for your mother.”
Daphne could not conceal an expression of resentment because I was trying to keep her hidden, but I insisted:
“Look, my divorce from her mother was quite ugly, and if she sees you here, she will stop sending Michelle to your school and complain to your boss.”
For Michelle, the situation was a little amusing, but she played along with discretion. We took the elevator to the lobby where we would meet with her mother. My conversation was polite and brief, and when we said Antalya travesti our good-byes, they soon left. I went back to the apartment to drive Daphne home, but she surprised me by asking:
“If it is not too much of an inconvenience, it is quite late to be driving around again. May I take a shower and spend the night on your sofa?”
“If that’s what you want.”
I looked for some of my daughter’s clothes so this young lady could change after her shower, and when she came out, I also took one. When I finished and got dressed, she was already sitting on the sofa, listening to soft music. Once alone, an uncomfortable silence settled over us, like an accusation: we had no more trivial conversation topics and we feared that the only thing about which we could chat would be about our respective indiscretions. My clothes were somewhat baggy and what she wore, on the contrary, was tight, given the difference in size. She had to leave a few buttons of her blouse undone, allowing for a full-grown woman’s bosom. It made me feel uneasy, and at the same time, excited me, having at my home a woman so young, almost with an air of a teenager. I tried to conceal my reactions, and I even kept my back turned to her, and she behaved similarly. She asked me:
“May I change the music?”
“Whatever pleases you.”
At my stereo, she fumbled a little with the knobs, so I approached her to help. Then, it happened: I stood behind her, reached with my arm over her shoulder to press the appropriate button, unable to avoid contact with her back and neck. I took in the fragrance of her hair, and I could not resist anymore. I felt a surge in tension and I knew that one was spreading between both of us. I placed my hands on her shoulders for seconds that seemed to last forever and she shrugged, but she relaxed again. I pushed the envelope by crossing my forearm over her collarbone, pressing my cheek against hers, while we listened to the melody more intently. I could not help but press my penis against her buttocks with a dance-like sway, and she grabbed my left thigh to “melt” against me. Suddenly, she broke loose, and before I had a chance to apologize, she took my cheeks, inviting me to kiss her lips. While doing this, I grabbed her by the waist and we consumed each other, while feeling the heat of my member against her belly and her nipples against my chest. Then, I grabbed her buttocks and she held on to my shouldres to let me pick her up, her feet a mere inches off the floor while I carried her from the İstanbul travesti shelf to the sofa. I lay her on the cushions and I took the freedom of unbuttoning her blouse completely, while she did the same to my shirt. I dove on her breasts, and I soon sucked them more and more. While she arched her back from pleasure, I pulled her pajama pants. She was wearing nothing underneath. I kissed and even nibbled on her stomach on my way to feast on her vulva and clitoris. She could no longer hide what she was feeling, because the rocking of her hips was convulsive and she groaned uncontrollably.
After reaching her first orgasm, she slipped away from my grasp, and she proceeded to remove the rest of my nightwear, in order to reciprocate me by taking my penis between her lips. She mischievously kissed my glans, and little by little, took the entire length, to slowly suck me off. I exclaimed:
“Oh, I can’t hold back!”
And I ejaculated inside her mouth. It was obvious that she expected that. She sipped as much as she could, and while she milked me dry, I lost my erection. I stood up to offer her a drink, and she responded by kissing me again. While probing my tongue with hers, I felt what it should be the flavor of my own semen, and I turned away in disgust. But also, my erection returned and I took her again, almost roughly, reclined her on the sofa and penetrated her vagina. I might have ejaculated immediately, but it would take a while to replenish my semen, so I pumped leisurely to the rhythm of the music. She grabbed my buttocks, urging me on a little faster, and she moaned again and again, to finally, toss her head backward, exhausted by so much pleasure. I gave my last strokes and I spent myself inside her. We sat straight in order to have a drink and catch our breaths before moving to the bedroom. I commented to her:
“To me, you will always be the most beautiful woman in the universe.”
We fell asleep embraced.
We had more encounters like that one, and some even raunchier, although nothing kinkier than anal sex.
When my daughter reached adulthood, she opted for a more “serious” university career and quit modeling. She entered a pageant, and although Daphne volunteered as an advisor, she only made semi-finalist. After that, the teacher faded from our lives. I learned, through conversations with Michelle, that her boss wanted to retire, and she offered to sell the younger woman her share of the business, but she was only a wage-earner, and she didn’t have enough saved to invest in the company. Upon closing, at least, she got good references so she would be hired by another academy, until it became time for her to retire. I had also retired, and although what I yearned most was to get back with the mother of my daughter, that chapter in my life was already closed.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32