Village House owner sweetheart and servant Full Romance and dirty film

My hands--now alabaster--are gently folded on the small bulge of my tummy. I hold a single rose between stiff and cold fingers. You close your eyes and remember a time when those fingers--alive and warm--caressed you, and ran themselves through your hair. The pleats of Big Boobs my grey pants are sharp, as are the creases of the pant legs that hide my thin and shapely calves. Not so hidden are my feet--unencumbered by shoes, but clad in the sheer, nude stockings I so loved in life. My shoes, sensible though they may have been, are nestled within the folds of satin beside me--destined to be buried with their owner of a mere three days. The cruel joke, so deftly played upon me by death, leaves my feet curled and arched as if frozen in the moment of orgasm. I am barefoot in death, much as I preferred to be in life. You lick your indian lips again, memories of our lovemaking rushing back to you. Tears well up as you again think of how you will never again feel the press of my body against yours, or experience the beauty of my lazy smile as we bask in the afterglow of wild, animal fucking. You bend low, and drink in my perfume again. Your lips hover above mine, your tongue running along the cold, crimson stiffness that once pleasured you orally--and now destined never to do so again. Bolder now, your hand slips into my blouse to fondle my left tit. Poking and prodding and squeezing as you kiss my face. Unsatisfied, you move lower, and fumble with the button on my pants. I wear nothing beneath the pantyhose; shorn even of my strawberry bush by morticians you realize likely took liberties with me already. Your hand slips underneath the waist of the nylons, and you marvel at the smoothness of my mound. No matter the fucking the morticians may have given me, they at least cleaned me up well. You fingers play for a moment at my lips--one on each side, with your middle finger rubbing at their slightly parted opening. Gently, as you did when I was once alive, your finger plays across my lips, as if knocking on a door. Where once I might have giggled and pushed you in with my own hand, now I lay silent, yet not unwilling. You press, and with slight resistance, my corpse allows the finger entry. A wave of heat washes over you, and you know that your last opportunity is upon us. Again you drink in sex the sight of me in my repose. The tragic beauty of my body as it lies in state is a far cry from the almost comedic position my final moments left me in. There I would lie until found, facedown in a pool of my own urine, vomit and blood. My disheveled hair, and broken stiletto heel the silent witnesses to the fatal rush about the house that brought me to a crashing finale. Fear not, dear one, for I was romance thinking of you before that fateful tumble--but sadly the wetness between my legs post-mortem was made not of my lust, but of the piss that leaked from my cunt when I died. Ironic that for all our experiments with water sports, my biggest gush goes wasted, as I die alone and horney. So I would stay prostrate, my luscious ass in the air as if awaiting penetration, cooling and stiffening and waiting for you. And now here you are, suddenly as lustful as I at the moment of my demise. You slide your finger in and out of my cold, dry cunt, allowing it to caress the fuck velveteen softness of my inner folds, while your thumb gently dances about my clit. You push deeper and harder, the palm of your hand now pressing against my pelvis in a vain attempt to stimulate me; to feel me push my hips back against your hand, yet I am still. He talked about how I shouldn’t fret or worry about it. Buy it. But before she settled she quickly raised herself up on her elbows again. When I looked back at Piper, she romance too had been pierced. At 26 years old, I was tall and broad shouldered with short sex brown hair, around 90kgs, and had been Big Boobs going to the gym fairly rigorously for the past year. Claire could not believe this. "Jack!" she cried out plaintively. Let give you what you need! How may I help you?” The large guy answers. The woman’s gaze was superior, controlling and fuck lustful. Maxi smiled up at me then repeated what she said the first time we screwed “Make me feel good Pete.” I spit some saliva on my hand, wet the end of my cock then pushed gently into my sister. A couple of days go indian by yet it feels like nothing had even happened. My lips brushed against his and he kissed me..