I open the door, tired and ready for a catnap, when I see you have beaten me home and are sat down on my sofa, flicking through a magazine in your lap... covering just enough of you for me to presume you are wearing just the shorts you wore to the beach. I catch your eye and gaze at you lovingly, smiling happily. You put aside the book to prove me wrong as my eyes move down and fix on your long, thick cock flopped lazily over your thigh. My eyes bulge and my smile widens over my face. You stand. I bought a wine for her as I learned she loves it. I reached her place behind IIM Bangalore in Bennarghatta Road a good locality. To my surprise and joy she was alone with her maid as her husband was traveling. The living room was nice and romantic with nice aromatherapy candles and flowers. She was wearing a normal kurta and leggings; that itself was an instant turn on for me. She was giving instructions to her maid to clean the kitchen after cooking. We started chatting casually about cooking. Grace knew talking to him about this was suicide. She would read the letters at night in the privacy of her room, with the privacy of her various drinks, and sometimes a she couldn't resist just.... touching. She would slide her soft hands up her short silk gown, and caress her self remembering how wonderful Jesse used to taste, regretting never letting him inside her. Imagining his tongue where her fingers were. She would move a little bit faster, a little bit harder, until she was frantically. I stumble upon a cuckolding video and my memory brings back to mind the pieces of the puzzle. I put it together. One, two, three strikes, you're out ! And I am turned on !So I watch more of the same, and specially, a white wife cuckolding her husband with a well hung black man. And I start reading stories about it, and forums and blogs, and black superiority web sites. And I don't understand. Probably because I have jealous tendencies...A husband who loves his wife can't let her be used like.
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