Nandita To Nandini
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Donna And Some More Exploits free porn video
Donna and Nellie’s Tits (again)
One evening, while waiting for Donna in the pub I was chatting to Nellie at the bar. It was quiet and no other customers were there. Nellie was moaning about her chest again. She had, so she told me, been out to a posh family do the weekend before and one of her tits had made a bid for freedom while she was dancing. She explained that her frock had not been suitable for a bra to be worn under it, since it had no back and she is singularly proud of that piece of her anatomy. I felt it was unwise of her to buy a dress that did not accommodate a bra but didn’t say so. Apparently when the said mammary was released it caused something of a stir among her fellow celebrants.
‘It was this one,’ she said, hefting her left breast, as if it really mattered which had escaped. ‘At least they didn’t both get out.’ I wasn’t sure that particularly mattered but held my counsel. To be perfectly honest I was rather afraid one might pop out as we spoke, so barely contained did they seem to be but was relieved when she said she’d bought a new bra which did the job rather well. ‘Want to see it?’ Before I could refuse and rather to my horror she yanked her t shirt aside to reveal an extraordinarily diaphanous garment which held her boob in a sort of string bag.
‘May one enquire precisely what is occurring here?’ Donna’s voice was right behind my ear. I turned, hastily and started to frame an explanation but her eyes were cold and she appeared angry. ‘I move in and two days later here you are with Nellie’s tit in your face and you drooling all over the counter. It’s not good enough.’ She turned to Nellie. ‘Pop that away, Nell, and fetch me a glass of the same as College is having. Better get her one as well, she looks as though she needs one.’ To my huge relief, Donna kissed me and laughed. ‘Should have seen your face, College. Not surprising really, terrifying sight that.’
Nellie returned with two glasses of wine and poked her tongue out at Donna. ‘Just cos you’ve got bee stings for tits.’ She hefted hers again, both together this time. ‘That is what you call a bosom.’
‘Entre nous, College,’ said Donna later when we were in bed together, ‘this is what I call a bosom.’ She gently palpated mine as I kissed her ear. I had explained that Nellie had whipped it out before I could beseech her not to. I slid down and nestled between hers.
‘They’re not bee stings, they’re gorgeous.’
‘I couldn’t give a fig, because when you’re doing that and, oh yes, that too, they do the trick lovely.’ I persisted to make sure the trick was being done satisfactorily. She pushed me gently down further so I could lick over her tummy and follow the guiding strip of hair to that delectable treasure that lies, warm and moist for me between her thighs.
‘Are you sure you still trust me?’
‘Sometimes, College, you talk too much.’ Her fingers curled in my hair and pulled me towards her firmly. I stopped talking, there being far better ways to express my utter love for her.
Donna in Paris
‘I won’t be about next week,’ Donna had said over supper one evening. I suppressed an urge to question her. Part of our deal was that I didn’t cramp her style or ask her what she was doing – if she wanted me to know she’d tell me but I was a mort irritated. Supposing I had booked a theatre trip or planned a surprise party for her. But I hadn’t.
‘I’m going to France. The Gallery Director has asked me to take some paintings by one of her current protégés to a gallery near Notre Dame where they are to be displayed.’ I asked if she was good.
‘You know Munch’s ‘The Scream?’ I nodded. ‘Of course you do, College. Well even though it is not something you’d probably want hanging on your kitchen wall here, it being less than restful on the eye, it has value, no? Miss Crimson Tatley-Bhint’s work has some of those qualities. To wit, you wouldn’t hang it on your toilet wall. She is gratuitously pornographic and her work graphically depicts women suffering, usually at the hands of other women. My Director has offered six of her pieces to be shown, presumably in the hope that the Parisian Perverts club is having a convention.’
Donna, having been recruited to clean the gallery and make sandwiches etc had been promoted to a more senior position and assisted at exhibitions and even wrote blurb for the gallery’s PR material. At last someone was recognising her qualities aside from me.
On the evening she was due to return I had laid the table as if for a dinner party. Candles, cut glass, flowers, an ice bucket with a bottle of bubbles in it and I had prepared her favourite meal of Coq au Vin to be followed by chocolate ice cream. I put a note saying ‘Welcome Home’ at her place and then showered and dressed in readiness for her return. I wore the blue dress she had chosen for me and hid in the kitchen when she came home. She strolled into the kitchen where she stopped and stared open-mouthed at the table and the room. I was pleased with her reaction until suddenly two large tears appeared and ran, like glass marbles, down her lovely cheeks. I came out of hiding and held her, worried to death that something was wrong. She shook herself and looked deep into my eyes with her own, mismatched eyes.
‘Don’t mind me, College, but this is simply the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.’
I held her then and felt the wet of her tears on my neck. She stepped back and let her hands slide to my hips.
‘Oh, but look at you,’ she said, then kissed me firmly.
Over dinner and champagne she told me she had been fortunate that the Parisian Perverts had indeed been out in abundance (and a Citroen she had remarked impishly) and she had sold all six pictures. She had, purely for the sake of art and commerce, had to sleep with twenty-two Parisian women but, not to worry, they all smelled of garlic and Camel cigarettes. I smiled.
As I removed the final dish from in front of her, her hand wandered up under my frock.
‘Oh, College, you’re wearing them for me aren’t you?’
Since the first time she had seen me in stockings and a suspender belt it had been a mode of dress that always inflamed her, hence my decision this evening. She drew me to her and I sat astride her, the dress rucked up to my waist and we kissed. After that we were all hands and mouths and tongues. Later in bed, still wearing the stockings, I lay with her head on my breast and stroked her hair.
‘Only twenty-two Parisian women?’
‘Well, it might have been twenty-three but who is counting?’
Donna and Rugby
Donna and I wandered down to the pub one evening, bought a couple of glasses of wine and sat talking at our usual table by the window. I noticed Donna’s eyes widen as she looked over my shoulder so I turned to see what had aroused her interest. Standing at the bar was a very tall, extremely fit looking man who was talking to Nellie.
‘Notice anything, College? Does your razor sharp brain observe something exceeding unusual?’ I muttered something about him being tall and she said, ‘That is clearly true but hardly an observation of high intellect. Does it not pique your interest that the said Longfellow is actually talking to Nellie and not at her bristols?’ (For non-Brits this is an example of rhyming slang, commonly used in London – Bristol Cities = titties). Now she had pointed it out I did notice and marvelled again at her perception. At that moment, Nellie invited us over to join them and as we approached I recognised him as the chap who plays number eight for Bath.
At this point some further explanation may be required for overseas readers. If anyone here in Bath says, ‘He plays for Bath,’ they mean Bath Rugby club which is one of the best in the country and to which my father took me every Saturday from the age of eight. I am a devoted fan and still go quite often. Number eight means that he plays at the back of the scrum but I suspect this may be too much too soon for some of you. Suffice to say it means he is a high-grade professional sportsman and he looked every inch of it, carved from granite.
To be fair this meant nothing to Donna who murmured, ‘Well, even I can see why Nellie might find him worth talking to.’
Nellie introduced us to the rugby player whom she had met at a club some days before. She was clearly showing him off. He was charming, well-dressed and quite obviously interested in Nellie. When I said that I recognised him, I revealed my interest in the game. He asked if we might perhaps care to go to the next game and take Nellie. He’d get us good seats and perhaps I could be persuaded to explain the game to Nellie as it unfolds since she patently doesn’t get it. We might care to join him and other members of the team afterwards for a drink? Nellie agreed on our behalf before we could even think about it.
As I recall Donna and I were later indulging in a little bit of mutual exploration when I said, ‘You fancied him, didn’t you?’ Donna’s finger did a little ‘come hither’ motion somewhere deep inside me and I clung to her as the wave of abandonment flowed through me. Sometimes, just sometimes, she can tip me over the edge in seconds when she gets that just right.
As I calmed, my chin resting on her shoulder, Donna asked, ‘You jealous, College?’
‘You can fancy anyone you like but please, let me know if you’re going to do anything about it?’
She gently eased me back and stroked my face. ‘Soppy tart. Oh, he’s handsome enough but I thought by now you’d have realised that I am first, interested sexually only in one half of the earth’s population and second, that once the L word creeps into our relationship there is a promise between us that cannot be broken. Never had you down as insecure.’
At that moment I felt entirely secure. Her hand had not moved and her spare arm was around my neck and I felt as safe as it is humanly possible to feel. I kissed her.
We were given seats in the directors’ box. Donna had come dressed in a long, black coat and a cap which tilted deliciously to the left. I was wearing a Barbour jacket I’d found in the back of a cupboard and a long, woollen scarf with, unusually for me, jeans against the chill weather. Nellie wore a pvc coat, a skirt like a pelmet and heels – she shivered through most of the game which, when someone has knockers like hers, can be scary. In fact Donna said she looked like she was having an earthquake! My attempts to explain what was going on in the game fell on stony, permafrost ground.
When we retired to the bar we gratefully absorbed some heat and some well-deserved beer. Nellie’s beau and a couple of his chums joined us a while later looking fresh and clean although he had a black eye and a plaster across his nose. This brought the Florence Nightingale out in Nellie who stood on tiptoe to caress his face with nursely concern. We chatted to the other players since Nellie’s chest formed an impenetrable barrier around the two of them.
I chatted to the fly half (I won’t explain – it would take too long) but left him to go to the loo where Donna arrived soon after. We chatted convivially in neighbouring stalls and then she said, ‘Do you mind if we go home? I’m not sure why but I have an uncanny desire to give you a seeing to.’ We made our way back to say our goodbyes then walked hand in hand and with increasing urgency.
We almost ran up the stairs. I opened the door and she dragged me inside, kicking the door to behind her. She fell upon me there in the hallway. She wrestled my jacket open and undid the waist of my jeans. She pushed them down to my ankles and, as I kissed her fervently she removed her own trousers. It was like wrestling. She pushed me against the wall and almost ripped her trousers in her haste to remove them her knickers and her boots. She didn’t give me time to step out of my jeans but threaded her leg between mine, stepping over the mess of denim and knickers around my ankles. Her hands on my shoulders, her face close to mine with a wicked, lustful grin she pressed herself to me and ground against me. She kissed me savagely and I responded eagerly, opening my mouth and sucking her tongue deep into my mouth. Both dressed above the waist we moved like things possessed, our hips moving in opposition, our mouths together. I slipped my hands inside her coat and gripped her blouse in my clenched hands. Her arms were around me and she bit my lip. Suddenly her head went back and she gave a sort of howl and I felt her entire body go into a paroxysm. My own crisis followed noisily in seconds, fuelled by her lust, her arousal and her orgasm. We slid to the floor and held each other, a tangle of clothes and limbs. We held each other, panting and sweating.
We both looked up in horror as the front door slowly creaked open. To my huge relief there was nobody there. We burst into a giggling fit which became hysterical.
Donna disentangled herself and stood to close the door. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘If the neighbours had any doubts before, they sure as hell don’t now. Goodness – you seem to have lost your trousers!’
One evening, while waiting for Donna in the pub I was chatting to Nellie at the bar. It was quiet and no other customers were there. Nellie was moaning about her chest again. She had, so she told me, been out to a posh family do the weekend before and one of her tits had made a bid for freedom while she was dancing. She explained that her frock had not been suitable for a bra to be worn under it, since it had no back and she is singularly proud of that piece of her anatomy. I felt it was unwise of her to buy a dress that did not accommodate a bra but didn’t say so. Apparently when the said mammary was released it caused something of a stir among her fellow celebrants.
‘It was this one,’ she said, hefting her left breast, as if it really mattered which had escaped. ‘At least they didn’t both get out.’ I wasn’t sure that particularly mattered but held my counsel. To be perfectly honest I was rather afraid one might pop out as we spoke, so barely contained did they seem to be but was relieved when she said she’d bought a new bra which did the job rather well. ‘Want to see it?’ Before I could refuse and rather to my horror she yanked her t shirt aside to reveal an extraordinarily diaphanous garment which held her boob in a sort of string bag.
‘May one enquire precisely what is occurring here?’ Donna’s voice was right behind my ear. I turned, hastily and started to frame an explanation but her eyes were cold and she appeared angry. ‘I move in and two days later here you are with Nellie’s tit in your face and you drooling all over the counter. It’s not good enough.’ She turned to Nellie. ‘Pop that away, Nell, and fetch me a glass of the same as College is having. Better get her one as well, she looks as though she needs one.’ To my huge relief, Donna kissed me and laughed. ‘Should have seen your face, College. Not surprising really, terrifying sight that.’
Nellie returned with two glasses of wine and poked her tongue out at Donna. ‘Just cos you’ve got bee stings for tits.’ She hefted hers again, both together this time. ‘That is what you call a bosom.’
‘Entre nous, College,’ said Donna later when we were in bed together, ‘this is what I call a bosom.’ She gently palpated mine as I kissed her ear. I had explained that Nellie had whipped it out before I could beseech her not to. I slid down and nestled between hers.
‘They’re not bee stings, they’re gorgeous.’
‘I couldn’t give a fig, because when you’re doing that and, oh yes, that too, they do the trick lovely.’ I persisted to make sure the trick was being done satisfactorily. She pushed me gently down further so I could lick over her tummy and follow the guiding strip of hair to that delectable treasure that lies, warm and moist for me between her thighs.
‘Are you sure you still trust me?’
‘Sometimes, College, you talk too much.’ Her fingers curled in my hair and pulled me towards her firmly. I stopped talking, there being far better ways to express my utter love for her.
Donna in Paris
‘I won’t be about next week,’ Donna had said over supper one evening. I suppressed an urge to question her. Part of our deal was that I didn’t cramp her style or ask her what she was doing – if she wanted me to know she’d tell me but I was a mort irritated. Supposing I had booked a theatre trip or planned a surprise party for her. But I hadn’t.
‘I’m going to France. The Gallery Director has asked me to take some paintings by one of her current protégés to a gallery near Notre Dame where they are to be displayed.’ I asked if she was good.
‘You know Munch’s ‘The Scream?’ I nodded. ‘Of course you do, College. Well even though it is not something you’d probably want hanging on your kitchen wall here, it being less than restful on the eye, it has value, no? Miss Crimson Tatley-Bhint’s work has some of those qualities. To wit, you wouldn’t hang it on your toilet wall. She is gratuitously pornographic and her work graphically depicts women suffering, usually at the hands of other women. My Director has offered six of her pieces to be shown, presumably in the hope that the Parisian Perverts club is having a convention.’
Donna, having been recruited to clean the gallery and make sandwiches etc had been promoted to a more senior position and assisted at exhibitions and even wrote blurb for the gallery’s PR material. At last someone was recognising her qualities aside from me.
On the evening she was due to return I had laid the table as if for a dinner party. Candles, cut glass, flowers, an ice bucket with a bottle of bubbles in it and I had prepared her favourite meal of Coq au Vin to be followed by chocolate ice cream. I put a note saying ‘Welcome Home’ at her place and then showered and dressed in readiness for her return. I wore the blue dress she had chosen for me and hid in the kitchen when she came home. She strolled into the kitchen where she stopped and stared open-mouthed at the table and the room. I was pleased with her reaction until suddenly two large tears appeared and ran, like glass marbles, down her lovely cheeks. I came out of hiding and held her, worried to death that something was wrong. She shook herself and looked deep into my eyes with her own, mismatched eyes.
‘Don’t mind me, College, but this is simply the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.’
I held her then and felt the wet of her tears on my neck. She stepped back and let her hands slide to my hips.
‘Oh, but look at you,’ she said, then kissed me firmly.
Over dinner and champagne she told me she had been fortunate that the Parisian Perverts had indeed been out in abundance (and a Citroen she had remarked impishly) and she had sold all six pictures. She had, purely for the sake of art and commerce, had to sleep with twenty-two Parisian women but, not to worry, they all smelled of garlic and Camel cigarettes. I smiled.
As I removed the final dish from in front of her, her hand wandered up under my frock.
‘Oh, College, you’re wearing them for me aren’t you?’
Since the first time she had seen me in stockings and a suspender belt it had been a mode of dress that always inflamed her, hence my decision this evening. She drew me to her and I sat astride her, the dress rucked up to my waist and we kissed. After that we were all hands and mouths and tongues. Later in bed, still wearing the stockings, I lay with her head on my breast and stroked her hair.
‘Only twenty-two Parisian women?’
‘Well, it might have been twenty-three but who is counting?’
Donna and Rugby
Donna and I wandered down to the pub one evening, bought a couple of glasses of wine and sat talking at our usual table by the window. I noticed Donna’s eyes widen as she looked over my shoulder so I turned to see what had aroused her interest. Standing at the bar was a very tall, extremely fit looking man who was talking to Nellie.
‘Notice anything, College? Does your razor sharp brain observe something exceeding unusual?’ I muttered something about him being tall and she said, ‘That is clearly true but hardly an observation of high intellect. Does it not pique your interest that the said Longfellow is actually talking to Nellie and not at her bristols?’ (For non-Brits this is an example of rhyming slang, commonly used in London – Bristol Cities = titties). Now she had pointed it out I did notice and marvelled again at her perception. At that moment, Nellie invited us over to join them and as we approached I recognised him as the chap who plays number eight for Bath.
At this point some further explanation may be required for overseas readers. If anyone here in Bath says, ‘He plays for Bath,’ they mean Bath Rugby club which is one of the best in the country and to which my father took me every Saturday from the age of eight. I am a devoted fan and still go quite often. Number eight means that he plays at the back of the scrum but I suspect this may be too much too soon for some of you. Suffice to say it means he is a high-grade professional sportsman and he looked every inch of it, carved from granite.
To be fair this meant nothing to Donna who murmured, ‘Well, even I can see why Nellie might find him worth talking to.’
Nellie introduced us to the rugby player whom she had met at a club some days before. She was clearly showing him off. He was charming, well-dressed and quite obviously interested in Nellie. When I said that I recognised him, I revealed my interest in the game. He asked if we might perhaps care to go to the next game and take Nellie. He’d get us good seats and perhaps I could be persuaded to explain the game to Nellie as it unfolds since she patently doesn’t get it. We might care to join him and other members of the team afterwards for a drink? Nellie agreed on our behalf before we could even think about it.
As I recall Donna and I were later indulging in a little bit of mutual exploration when I said, ‘You fancied him, didn’t you?’ Donna’s finger did a little ‘come hither’ motion somewhere deep inside me and I clung to her as the wave of abandonment flowed through me. Sometimes, just sometimes, she can tip me over the edge in seconds when she gets that just right.
As I calmed, my chin resting on her shoulder, Donna asked, ‘You jealous, College?’
‘You can fancy anyone you like but please, let me know if you’re going to do anything about it?’
She gently eased me back and stroked my face. ‘Soppy tart. Oh, he’s handsome enough but I thought by now you’d have realised that I am first, interested sexually only in one half of the earth’s population and second, that once the L word creeps into our relationship there is a promise between us that cannot be broken. Never had you down as insecure.’
At that moment I felt entirely secure. Her hand had not moved and her spare arm was around my neck and I felt as safe as it is humanly possible to feel. I kissed her.
We were given seats in the directors’ box. Donna had come dressed in a long, black coat and a cap which tilted deliciously to the left. I was wearing a Barbour jacket I’d found in the back of a cupboard and a long, woollen scarf with, unusually for me, jeans against the chill weather. Nellie wore a pvc coat, a skirt like a pelmet and heels – she shivered through most of the game which, when someone has knockers like hers, can be scary. In fact Donna said she looked like she was having an earthquake! My attempts to explain what was going on in the game fell on stony, permafrost ground.
When we retired to the bar we gratefully absorbed some heat and some well-deserved beer. Nellie’s beau and a couple of his chums joined us a while later looking fresh and clean although he had a black eye and a plaster across his nose. This brought the Florence Nightingale out in Nellie who stood on tiptoe to caress his face with nursely concern. We chatted to the other players since Nellie’s chest formed an impenetrable barrier around the two of them.
I chatted to the fly half (I won’t explain – it would take too long) but left him to go to the loo where Donna arrived soon after. We chatted convivially in neighbouring stalls and then she said, ‘Do you mind if we go home? I’m not sure why but I have an uncanny desire to give you a seeing to.’ We made our way back to say our goodbyes then walked hand in hand and with increasing urgency.
We almost ran up the stairs. I opened the door and she dragged me inside, kicking the door to behind her. She fell upon me there in the hallway. She wrestled my jacket open and undid the waist of my jeans. She pushed them down to my ankles and, as I kissed her fervently she removed her own trousers. It was like wrestling. She pushed me against the wall and almost ripped her trousers in her haste to remove them her knickers and her boots. She didn’t give me time to step out of my jeans but threaded her leg between mine, stepping over the mess of denim and knickers around my ankles. Her hands on my shoulders, her face close to mine with a wicked, lustful grin she pressed herself to me and ground against me. She kissed me savagely and I responded eagerly, opening my mouth and sucking her tongue deep into my mouth. Both dressed above the waist we moved like things possessed, our hips moving in opposition, our mouths together. I slipped my hands inside her coat and gripped her blouse in my clenched hands. Her arms were around me and she bit my lip. Suddenly her head went back and she gave a sort of howl and I felt her entire body go into a paroxysm. My own crisis followed noisily in seconds, fuelled by her lust, her arousal and her orgasm. We slid to the floor and held each other, a tangle of clothes and limbs. We held each other, panting and sweating.
We both looked up in horror as the front door slowly creaked open. To my huge relief there was nobody there. We burst into a giggling fit which became hysterical.
Donna disentangled herself and stood to close the door. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘If the neighbours had any doubts before, they sure as hell don’t now. Goodness – you seem to have lost your trousers!’
Mei
- 11.02.2022
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- Category:
- Lesbian
