Trying to get off him, I discovered he was holding tight to me, refusing to let me leave. I tugged on my legs, wincing as his nails dug in, pushing at...his hands and chest. The cock within me pulsed, and his breathing grew ragged. Sick bastard was getting off on me fighting with him. Punching at his chest in disgust, I cried out as he thrust up into me. It was so sudden I was left there, back arching, hands on his Pecs, gasping for air. Even while it was a bad idea, I could not help but glare. He never complained or questioned his mother's arrangements. He did not think to explore the two sets of shampoo and make-up in Fran's en suite, or the extra wine bottles that were put out for recycling.He wondered idly which neighbour had a French person staying when the Citroen with Departement 11 plates which was outside in the street for several nights in a row.He was as gullible as children often are where their parents are concerned; and Fran smiled as she remembered the little. More

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