Steele
- 2 years ago
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A Steel Curve free porn video
She emerged from the lift with a dozen other passengers, casting her eyes over the Charles de Gaulle concourse in search of him. It was weeks since they’d parted in Brussels before now joining each other again for the wedding. She followed the wave forward; steel clicking against stone; cotton, cashmere, silk and leather walking with her in a still sleepy rising gait. The confusion of whether it was night or dawn hung over the airport and for travellers the smell of coffee was the only anchor in a sleepless domain.
It was his walk that she noticed from a distance, a slow press into the marble above which strange shoulders carried him forwards amidst the more insistent march of seasoned Europeans.
Over fifty of them stood in the queue, snaked around temporary barriers and draped within the undulations of pillars and corners. Whether lemmings, penguins or cattle she couldn’t quite place, but none of them were fully awake. Her poncho draped comfortably around her with the soft cashmere casting wings between elbows and knees.
It was between the envelope of fabric at her side that he was now standing, hip pressed against her, arm extended across her back beneath the cashmere, his palm resting on her hip. The queue moved forwards. Two exhausted Parisian belles leaned against each other in front of them, ruffled remnants of barely left partying.
A conveyer whirred another suitcase into the belly of the airport and the tannoy reminded them again not to leave baggage unattended. Unattended. As if in response, he dropped his hand from her hip to close against her cheek, spreading his fingers softly against the jersey and closing them, bringing with each one a small wave of her. She hummed slightly, tilting her head into him.
The Parisians in front were kissing lazily with the boredom of the wait. In response, a few anxious conservatives began studying the screens before returning to the comfort of their phones. Her humming moved to a murmur as his spreading fingers rose slightly to find the opening they had inserted in her dress. All of their clothing now had such an entrée cache, a closely tailored seam that flowed with contours and patterns but allowed a hand, at least, to find its way towards skin and flesh underneath. And this, his hand, now did.
Fingertips brushed against smooth skin, bare beneath the jersey. They found the crest of her crack, and stroked the soft v of where her cheeks began. In front of her, she too now found refuge in a study of her phone, as seemingly engrossed in messages and memes as the rest of the travellers.
The belles had stopped kissing, but one had sat on her wheeled luggage, and the taller of the two was now stroking her friend’s hair nonchalantly, seemingly unaware that her hand reached towards the upper reaches of thinly silkened breasts and occasionally towards unabashed nipples. Her crack was now being traced gently with bolder fingers.
A tremor ran through her torso, from her clit, navel and nipples through to the underside of her lips and the back of her throat. As if on cue, he shifted his position so that she might also take her advantage, slip her hand through the denim’s false pocket to little resistance beneath until she met the strength of his response to her.
He smiled at her, and in the creases of his face she saw countless journeys, endless destinations, and it was in her saliva that she tasted the joy that dripped from those journeys, the nectar collected, the liqueur distilled.
Suddenly, his fingers took up more of a momentum and the crack of her cheeks gave way beneath his fingers to a momentary grace of her eye and on to the surface of swollen lips and a risen clit. He had reached low to achieve this, dipping his shoulder to her side and kissing her neck as a superficial distraction, but one that nonetheless loosened her saliva once more and released surges through her lips and tongue. Retreating from her clit, she felt his fingers delve slowly into the well of her juices, and a colder, harder sensation gathering those same juices. Not knowing the nature of this new finger was short lived as against her eye now pressed an expertly palmed pussy-juiced steel curve, a curve that pressed, did not relent, and began to enter her.
A dozing belle looked up as the phone failed to mask her murmurs and she tapped the screen with mock ire to steer her single audience member’s attention away from a rosy blush. But the Parisian’s gaze held hers as she felt the bulge of the steel plug finally slip through to sit firmly within her. A slow closing of her own eyes did not avert the eyes now on her, and the fingers that had caressed her cheeks returned to the tip of the plug that sat deep within, and she felt the small clockwise turn of a switch as a jolt in the eyes before her.
The Austrian couple behind them started to search leather hand luggage for what they were sure was their phone, and it was only when he turned the setting to another increment of delight and the higher frequency was absorbed within the walls of her pelvis did they relax, confused at their own tiredness. She, however, was gripping on to his rigidity with a falling helplessness.
The belle had now stood up and brought her friend also to her feet. The queue moved on, and she stumbled forwards with two exhausting steps. The belles helped with their luggage, inching it forwards as they both witnessed the changing landscape of her blushing and her breathing.
She was held behind by the pulsating rhythm of vibrating steel, pushed and angled occasionally by the architect of this scene whose cock now supported her on one side, and easy conversation with the Parisians shielded her from the other. He flexed himself now, in time with rising angles within her.
The belles had come together as well. Silkened nipples stepped forwards with a boldness belied of early morning courtesy, and it was when the bearer of these nipples stepped forwards further to lightly touch her belly that she grunted with the power of a storm, staggered as the pole in her hand released its own foundations, and as the Parisians laughed with the surprise of the morning.
They stepped forwards to the counter.
"Good morning. Two seats?"
"Hi there. No, four please."
It was his walk that she noticed from a distance, a slow press into the marble above which strange shoulders carried him forwards amidst the more insistent march of seasoned Europeans.
Over fifty of them stood in the queue, snaked around temporary barriers and draped within the undulations of pillars and corners. Whether lemmings, penguins or cattle she couldn’t quite place, but none of them were fully awake. Her poncho draped comfortably around her with the soft cashmere casting wings between elbows and knees.
It was between the envelope of fabric at her side that he was now standing, hip pressed against her, arm extended across her back beneath the cashmere, his palm resting on her hip. The queue moved forwards. Two exhausted Parisian belles leaned against each other in front of them, ruffled remnants of barely left partying.
A conveyer whirred another suitcase into the belly of the airport and the tannoy reminded them again not to leave baggage unattended. Unattended. As if in response, he dropped his hand from her hip to close against her cheek, spreading his fingers softly against the jersey and closing them, bringing with each one a small wave of her. She hummed slightly, tilting her head into him.
The Parisians in front were kissing lazily with the boredom of the wait. In response, a few anxious conservatives began studying the screens before returning to the comfort of their phones. Her humming moved to a murmur as his spreading fingers rose slightly to find the opening they had inserted in her dress. All of their clothing now had such an entrée cache, a closely tailored seam that flowed with contours and patterns but allowed a hand, at least, to find its way towards skin and flesh underneath. And this, his hand, now did.
Fingertips brushed against smooth skin, bare beneath the jersey. They found the crest of her crack, and stroked the soft v of where her cheeks began. In front of her, she too now found refuge in a study of her phone, as seemingly engrossed in messages and memes as the rest of the travellers.
The belles had stopped kissing, but one had sat on her wheeled luggage, and the taller of the two was now stroking her friend’s hair nonchalantly, seemingly unaware that her hand reached towards the upper reaches of thinly silkened breasts and occasionally towards unabashed nipples. Her crack was now being traced gently with bolder fingers.
A tremor ran through her torso, from her clit, navel and nipples through to the underside of her lips and the back of her throat. As if on cue, he shifted his position so that she might also take her advantage, slip her hand through the denim’s false pocket to little resistance beneath until she met the strength of his response to her.
He smiled at her, and in the creases of his face she saw countless journeys, endless destinations, and it was in her saliva that she tasted the joy that dripped from those journeys, the nectar collected, the liqueur distilled.
Suddenly, his fingers took up more of a momentum and the crack of her cheeks gave way beneath his fingers to a momentary grace of her eye and on to the surface of swollen lips and a risen clit. He had reached low to achieve this, dipping his shoulder to her side and kissing her neck as a superficial distraction, but one that nonetheless loosened her saliva once more and released surges through her lips and tongue. Retreating from her clit, she felt his fingers delve slowly into the well of her juices, and a colder, harder sensation gathering those same juices. Not knowing the nature of this new finger was short lived as against her eye now pressed an expertly palmed pussy-juiced steel curve, a curve that pressed, did not relent, and began to enter her.
A dozing belle looked up as the phone failed to mask her murmurs and she tapped the screen with mock ire to steer her single audience member’s attention away from a rosy blush. But the Parisian’s gaze held hers as she felt the bulge of the steel plug finally slip through to sit firmly within her. A slow closing of her own eyes did not avert the eyes now on her, and the fingers that had caressed her cheeks returned to the tip of the plug that sat deep within, and she felt the small clockwise turn of a switch as a jolt in the eyes before her.
The Austrian couple behind them started to search leather hand luggage for what they were sure was their phone, and it was only when he turned the setting to another increment of delight and the higher frequency was absorbed within the walls of her pelvis did they relax, confused at their own tiredness. She, however, was gripping on to his rigidity with a falling helplessness.
The belle had now stood up and brought her friend also to her feet. The queue moved on, and she stumbled forwards with two exhausting steps. The belles helped with their luggage, inching it forwards as they both witnessed the changing landscape of her blushing and her breathing.
She was held behind by the pulsating rhythm of vibrating steel, pushed and angled occasionally by the architect of this scene whose cock now supported her on one side, and easy conversation with the Parisians shielded her from the other. He flexed himself now, in time with rising angles within her.
The belles had come together as well. Silkened nipples stepped forwards with a boldness belied of early morning courtesy, and it was when the bearer of these nipples stepped forwards further to lightly touch her belly that she grunted with the power of a storm, staggered as the pole in her hand released its own foundations, and as the Parisians laughed with the surprise of the morning.
They stepped forwards to the counter.
"Good morning. Two seats?"
"Hi there. No, four please."
Emely
- 30.10.2022
- 24
- 0
- Category:
- Exhibitionism
