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Unlike my interlocutors, he knew that there was nothing under it.
In his office, I did not seek to be fucked.
It seemed to me more appropriate to “feed” my boy, sitting in his chair.
His kneeling pose is definitely spicier than mine would be.
In addition, I am sure that he will not wash or wipe his face, and my smell will brighten up the rest of the day.

I did not allow him to lock the door, increasing the risk of being caught, and this circumstance strengthened my orgasms, turning them into such fountains.
But the toilet, of course, is a special topic.
We visited both male and female.
Male is relevant only booth where I did what he wanted.
She undressed naked, knelt, directly on the floor, at the toilet in which he wrote, shook off the last drops of urine with her lips and sucked, directing the ending member to her face.
After that, I dressed and went to the mirror near the sinks to “fix up makeup” by slightly rubbing the sperm on my skin so that the flowing drops would not be too noticeable by the occasional oncoming, while Antosha licked between my protruding buttocks, startling from the slightest rustle that wafted from behind the door.

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The ladies’ toilet was much more dangerous than the male.
I wrote in it, and Antosha put his palm under the stream and licked his fingers, and then he made me a gentle wet “cleaning” with the tongue.
Once we were almost caught, and we barely got out, pretending that I was suddenly sick, and my husband took me to the washbasin.
Could not resist this little illustration of our relationship.
These days I was all soft, wet and supple like my pussy, and my body and breath smelled of sperm and squirt.
But we retired, stopped communicating with friends, refused to joint gatherings.
This retreat interrupted the invitation to celebrate the birthday of Antoshin’s friend and classmate of Glory.
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