Uncensored Transvestite High Quality Images

The week end comes to a close.

Your dress hung in folds across your knees, but nothing impeded my gaze and you knew full well I was looking directly at your cunt. I took my sunglasses off. I could see your lips through the darkness of your hair, relished the sight of the triangle rising from between your parted thighs, the smooth pale skin that highlighted the prominence of your sex. I imagined whether you were wet, wished that you'd part your lips and show me, or that I could reach forward and slide my finger within you, but neither of us could because there were people lounging nearby.

You smiled. Enjoying? I nodded. Good book then? And I smiled, oh yes, excellent.

You moved to lie beside me, a snug fit next to my arm, spread your book open on the ground and concentrated on the words. Or appeared to, because your other hand, the one that wasn't holding the pages open, slid purposefully beneath me to squeeze, stroke and manipulate my erection pressed against the ground.

I reciprocated, easing my hand underneath you as you lifted your hips slightly to assist my passage. Beneath you I wriggled your dress higher, bunching the soft fabric so I could delve beneath to reach the soft opening of your wet pussy. My fingers slipped between your lips easily, finding you soaked, slick moisture along the length of your crease and I slid a finger inside you, one knuckle deep, relishing the heat of your tightness; I circled within you, opening you. I withdrew, shifted the tips of my fingers to lie either side of your engorged clit, pressing together, flicking across the hard bump, slippery with your moisture.

I couldn't build any speed, so I slowly circled, rubbed firmly, back and forth, rhythmic, unceasing. I felt you press down subtly, rubbing yourself against my ever moving hand, and I loved the feel of your pleasure. Still you stared at your book, although I suspected you weren't really reading any longer, certainly I wasn't as you echoed my touch with your squeezing of my hard on.

Abruptly you dropped your head, pressed hard down twice, four times, against my pressing fingers and I heard the stifled gasps of your orgasm, my hand trapped beneath you unable to move from the hardness of your thrusts against me. You relaxed, smiled at me, squeezed me harder, but I recommenced my stroking, pressing my finger against your clit again, stroking the slipperiness, my finger gliding off and back again, Malays returning, pressing, flicking, and you came again until you whispered, enough.

On our way back to the bandstand, another drink in prospect before we found a bar to listen to the early evening jazz, you pulled me behind a wall. A narrow stretch of flags lay between the stone of the wall and the church, the wall was low in the most part, black iron railings skirting the road, but broad pillars about four or five feet wide separated each stretch of ornate cast iron. You dragged me back against one of these high columns pressed me against the sun drenched stone into a rich and deep kiss.

Behind the wall, with the odd thrum of slowly wending car along the narrow street, there was the occasional clip of heels, a murmur of passing conversation, here and gone, but we couldn't see them, secluded behind the well faced stone, entwined, lips meshed and tongues deep, probing against the other's. I held you, my hands tight on your rear, parting your cheeks beneath your thin dress as you pressed yourself hard against me, rubbing me through the summer linen's creases.

I turned you, pushing you back against the hard wall, lifting your skirt as you parted your legs for me, and I pushed on, two, fingers deeply and easily inside you, kissed down your neck and across your delightful sensuous collarbone, dipping my lips across the top of your chest, pressing my fingers against your breast and plying the hardness of your nipple between my fingers through your dress.

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