22-02-2026, 12:19 PM
My wife and I stood beside the freshly made bed in the quiet room, the air still heavy with the scent of soap and lingering arousal. She reached for her clothes first — yellow saree, yellow blouse, yellow petticoat, white bra, maroon panties — laid neatly on a chair by the cameraman earlier. I watched her every move, cock still half-hard inside my white dhoti, heart pounding with possessive satisfaction.
She stepped into her maroon panties first, pulling them up her thick juicy thighs, the maroon panties sliding over her pussy lips and ass cheeks, settling snug against her pussy mound and asshole. She hooked her white bra behind her back, cups covering her boobs, straps over her shoulders, adjusting until her boobs sat full and round inside the white bra. She slipped into her yellow petticoat next, tying the drawstring around her waist just below her mangalsutra, the yellow petticoat hugging her hips and lower belly. She dbangd the yellow saree over her yellow petticoat, pleating it carefully at her navel, tucking the pallu over her left shoulder, the yellow saree clinging to her boobs, her navel visible through the low waist, her thick juicy thighs outlined under the yellow saree folds. She wore her silver anklets last, bending to clasp them around her ankles, the tiny bells jingling softly as she straightened.
I pulled my dhoti back on, tying it around my waist, cock still throbbing faintly against the cotton, precum staining the front.
The bathroom door opened. The cameraman stepped out, in a white bathrobe tied loosely at his waist, cock outline visible under the robe, water droplets still clinging to his chest and neck. He looked at us — me standing beside her, my hand on her waist, her yellow saree pleats perfect, mangalsutra gleaming between her boobs — and smiled, calm and paternal.
He walked to my wife, grabbed her face gently with both hands, fingers resting along her jawline, thumbs brushing her cheeks. He leaned down and kissed her forehead softly, lips lingering there for a long moment.
"Sudha... be careful with Giridhar Sir and the boys. They’ll try to pull you back in. Focus on your last semester... clear your degree... don’t entertain them anymore. You deserve better than that. If you ever need help — any help — call me. Anytime. Daddy’s here for you."
My wife looked up at him, large dark eyes soft and grateful, a small smile on her lips. She nodded slowly.
"Yes, Daddy... thank you... I’ll focus on my studies... I’ll clear my degree... I won’t let them distract me again..." she whispered, voice quiet and sincere, her boobs rising and falling calmly under the yellow saree and yellow blouse, nipples soft now against the white bra, her thick juicy thighs relaxed under the yellow saree folds and maroon panties, her pussy lips still tingling faintly under the maroon panties, her navel hidden but quivering slightly with emotion.
The cameraman released her face, stepped back, and smiled at both of us — warm, approving.
"Good. Go home now. Rest. Take care of each other."
My wife turned to me, slipped her hand into mine, fingers interlacing tightly, mangalsutra swaying as she moved. I squeezed her hand, feeling the warmth of her palm, the pulse in her wrist.
We walked out together — her yellow saree rustling softly with each step, anklets jingling, my dhoti brushing her hip, her boobs swaying gently under the yellow blouse and white bra, her pussy lips still sensitive under her maroon panties, her navel quivering with quiet contentment. We left the room, the cameraman watching us go with that same calm smile, the door closing softly behind us.
We were happy — deeply, quietly happy — walking home together, her hand in mine, her body mine again, her pussy, her boobs, her ass cheeks, her asshole, her clit, her navel, her thighs — all mine, safe, loved, and ready for whatever came next.
Months passed. My wife threw herself into her studies with fierce determination, attending every lecture, studying late into the nights, her boobs rising and falling calmly under her yellow blouse as she pored over books, her thick juicy thighs crossed under the table in her maroon panties, her pussy lips still sensitive under the cotton when she thought of what she’d overcome. She cleared every subject in her final semester — no distractions, no boys, no Giridhar Sir. Her results came, and she passed with flying colors, degree secured, her dream finally achieved.
We celebrated quietly at home — her in her favorite yellow saree, mangalsutra gleaming between her boobs, silver anklets jingling as she moved around the kitchen, preparing a simple meal, her navel visible through the low waist, her pussy mound outlined softly under the saree folds and maroon panties. She smiled at me across the table, large dark eyes bright with pride and relief.
"Rajesh... I did it... my degree... it’s done... I’m so happy..." she whispered, voice thick with emotion, boobs rising and falling under the yellow blouse, nipples soft against the white bra, her thick juicy thighs shifting under the yellow saree, her plump ass cheeks settling against the chair.
But the joy was short-lived. Our house construction — the dream home we’d started building — stalled. Funds ran dry. Workers left. Materials piled up unpaid. We sat on the unfinished floor one evening, her yellow saree tucked around her hips, navel quivering with worry, boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, pussy lips tingling faintly under her maroon panties as she leaned against me.
"Rajesh... we can’t lose this... our home... I’ll call him... Daddy... he said if I ever needed help..." she said quietly, voice trembling but resolute, large dark eyes meeting mine.
She dialed his number. He answered on the first ring.
"Daddy... it’s Sudha... we’re in trouble... the house... we can’t finish it... we need money... please..." she said, voice soft, boobs rising and falling quickly under the yellow blouse, nipples hardening slightly against the white bra with anxiety, her thick juicy thighs pressing together under the yellow saree, pussy mound shifting under the maroon panties.
He didn’t hesitate.
"Sudha... don’t worry... I’ll send it today. Enough to finish everything. Your home will be complete. You deserve it... after everything." he replied, voice calm, warm, paternal.
The money arrived within hours — more than enough. Workers returned. Construction resumed. Walls went up, roof completed, floors tiled, doors fitted. My wife supervised every detail, yellow saree rustling as she moved through the site, mangalsutra swaying between her boobs, silver anklets jingling, boobs bouncing gently under the yellow blouse, nipples soft against the white bra, her thick juicy thighs outlined under the saree folds and maroon panties, navel visible and quivering with excitement.
Finally, the house was done — our home, fully constructed, every room ours. We stood in the living room that evening, sunlight streaming through the windows, her yellow saree glowing, mangalsutra gleaming, silver anklets jingling as she turned to me, large dark eyes shining with joy.
"Rajesh... it’s ours... our home... I did it... we did it..." she whispered, stepping into my arms, boobs pressing against my chest through the yellow blouse and white bra, nipples soft against me, her thick juicy thighs brushing mine under the saree, pussy mound warm against my cock through my dhoti, clit pulsing faintly under her maroon panties, her navel quivering against my stomach, her plump ass cheeks clenching softly as I hugged her tight.
"Yes... ours... forever..." I murmured, hands sliding down to squeeze her ass cheeks, fingers digging into the plump flesh, middle finger brushing her asshole entrance through the saree and maroon panties, feeling her asshole clench in response.
She sighed happily, boobs rising and falling against me, nipples hardening slightly under the white bra, her thick juicy thighs trembling with quiet contentment, her pussy lips warm and satisfied under the maroon panties, her clit pulsing softly, her navel quivering with joy, her body completely mine, safe, loved, and home at last.
The housewarming celebration filled the living room and veranda with guests, laughter, music, and the aroma of food. My wife moved gracefully among them in her yellow saree, yellow blouse, yellow petticoat, white bra, maroon panties, mangalsutra gleaming between her boobs, silver anklets jingling softly with each step, boobs swaying gently under the blouse, navel visible through the low waist, thick juicy thighs outlined under the saree folds.
The cameraman arrived, carrying a small gift box. He smiled when he saw her — calm, paternal. She greeted him with a soft hug, boobs pressing briefly against his chest, nipples soft under the white bra, her pussy mound brushing his hip for a heartbeat, clit giving a faint throb under her maroon panties.
"Daddy... thank you for coming... thank you for everything," she whispered against his ear, voice low.
"Sudha... this home is beautiful... you deserve it," he replied quietly, hand resting briefly on her waist, fingers brushing her hip through the yellow saree.
I watched from across the room, cock stirring inside my white dhoti, heart pounding with pride and dark excitement. When the guests were distracted with food and conversation, I pulled my wife aside into the hallway.
"He helped us build this house... everything we have... tonight, as my gift to him... I want you to give yourself to him... let him enjoy your pussy... your boobs... your asshole... everything... in our bedroom. I’ll handle the guests in the living room."
Her large dark eyes widened, then softened with understanding, boobs rising and falling quickly under the yellow blouse, nipples hardening against the white bra, her thick juicy thighs pressing together under the yellow saree, pussy lips tingling under the maroon panties, clit pulsing with sudden heat.
"Yes... Rajesh... if that’s what you want... I’ll give him everything... for you... for us..." she whispered, voice trembling with arousal, navel quivering under the saree, plump ass cheeks clenching faintly.
I led her to our bedroom, the door closing softly behind us. The cameraman followed moments later, stepping inside, eyes dark with quiet hunger as he saw her standing there — yellow saree clinging to her boobs, navel exposed, thick juicy thighs outlined, mangalsutra gleaming.
I kissed her forehead once, then left the room, closing the door, returning to the living room to attend to the guests, laughter and music covering the sounds that would soon come from behind that door.
Inside the bedroom, the cameraman enjoyed her fully — her pussy, her boobs, her asshole, everything — while I stayed in the living room, greeting guests, smiling, pretending everything was normal, my cock hard inside my white dhoti, leaking precum, knowing she was giving herself to him as my gift, her boobs bouncing, her pussy stretched, her asshole clenching, her moans muffled behind the closed door.
The celebration continued outside, music playing, guests laughing, while inside our bedroom, the old man took what I offered — her body, her pleasure, her surrender — completely.
Years later, the cameraman — Daddy — fell gravely ill. Word reached us quietly. He was on his deathbed in his bungalow, body frail but mind still sharp, eyes still carrying that calm, knowing look.
He sent a message through his nurse: "Sudha... Rajesh... come. Before I go... I want to feel her one last time... just once more."
My wife read the message, large dark eyes filling with tears, boobs rising and falling quickly under her red blouse, nipples hardening against the white bra, thick juicy thighs pressing together under her red saree and white panties, pussy lips tingling with a rush of memory and grief. She looked at me, voice soft but steady.
"Rajesh... he helped us... gave us everything... our home... our life... if this is his last wish... I want to give it to him."
I nodded, cock stirring inside my white dhoti at the thought, heart heavy but accepting. We drove to his bungalow that evening.
He lay in his bedroom, thin and pale under the sheets, but his eyes lit up when he saw her — red saree rustling as she approached, mangalsutra gleaming between her boobs, silver anklets jingling softly. I stood by the door, watching.
"Sudha... my sweet girl... come here... let Daddy feel you one last time..." he whispered, voice weak but warm.
She stepped to the bed, climbed up carefully, straddling his hips over the sheet, pussy mound pressing against his cock through the red saree and white panties, clit throbbing softly. She leaned down, boobs pressing against his chest through the red blouse and white bra, nipples scbanging his skin, her thick juicy thighs trembling around his frail hips.
He grabbed her waist weakly, fingers pressing into her waist flesh, pulling her closer. She tugged the sheet down, exposing his cock — still thick, though weaker now.
She reached under her red saree and red petticoat, grabbed the waistband of her white panties with both hands, and pulled her white panties down her thick juicy thighs, sliding them over her knees, then over her calves, past her ankles, letting them drop to the floor beside the bed, anklets jingling faintly as her feet moved. Her pussy lips now fully exposed, swollen and glistening, clit throbbing visibly, pussy entrance open and ready.
She lowered herself slowly onto his cock, pussy lips parting around his thickness, pussy entrance stretching as she sank down inch by inch, pussy juices coating his cock shaft until his cock head pressed against her deepest pussy walls.
He fucked her pussy slowly, weakly, cock sliding in and out of her pussy, cock head rubbing her pussy walls, balls pressing against her asshole, his hands grabbing her boobs through the red blouse and white bra, squeezing the plump flesh gently, fingers pinching her nipples softly through the cotton, making them throb under his touch.
"Sudha... my sweet girl... your pussy... so warm... so tight... thank you... for giving Daddy this..." he whispered, voice fading, cock pulsing inside her pussy, balls pressing against her asshole.
"Daddy... I love you... enjoy my pussy... take everything... I’m yours..." she moaned softly, pussy clenching around his cock, clit throbbing against his cock base, asshole pulsing, boobs heaving under his hands, nipples throbbing through the white bra, thick juicy thighs trembling around his hips, plump ass cheeks clenching, navel quivering with emotion, riding him gently until his breathing slowed, his cock giving one last weak throb inside her pussy, a final soft spurt of cum leaking into her pussy channel, his hands falling limp from her boobs.
She stayed on him a long moment, pussy clenching softly around his cock, clit pulsing against his cock base, tears slipping down her cheeks, boobs heaving slowly, nipples softening under the white bra, thick juicy thighs trembling around his hips, plump ass cheeks settling against his hands, navel quivering with grief and love.
A couple of days later, he passed quietly in his sleep.
In his will, he left everything to me — all his properties, his savings, and the bungalow where so much had happened. We received the documents a week later, the house now legally ours, a final gift from the man who had changed everything.
We lived happily — deeply, quietly happily — in our completed home, her red saree rustling through the rooms, mangalsutra gleaming between her boobs, silver anklets jingling as she moved, boobs swaying gently under the red blouse and white bra, pussy lips warm and satisfied under her white panties, navel quivering with contentment, her thick juicy thighs relaxed, her plump ass cheeks soft, her body completely mine, safe, loved, and at peace.
Our life together — built on everything that came before — finally ours, forever.
Regards
Novelist Casanova
She stepped into her maroon panties first, pulling them up her thick juicy thighs, the maroon panties sliding over her pussy lips and ass cheeks, settling snug against her pussy mound and asshole. She hooked her white bra behind her back, cups covering her boobs, straps over her shoulders, adjusting until her boobs sat full and round inside the white bra. She slipped into her yellow petticoat next, tying the drawstring around her waist just below her mangalsutra, the yellow petticoat hugging her hips and lower belly. She dbangd the yellow saree over her yellow petticoat, pleating it carefully at her navel, tucking the pallu over her left shoulder, the yellow saree clinging to her boobs, her navel visible through the low waist, her thick juicy thighs outlined under the yellow saree folds. She wore her silver anklets last, bending to clasp them around her ankles, the tiny bells jingling softly as she straightened.
I pulled my dhoti back on, tying it around my waist, cock still throbbing faintly against the cotton, precum staining the front.
The bathroom door opened. The cameraman stepped out, in a white bathrobe tied loosely at his waist, cock outline visible under the robe, water droplets still clinging to his chest and neck. He looked at us — me standing beside her, my hand on her waist, her yellow saree pleats perfect, mangalsutra gleaming between her boobs — and smiled, calm and paternal.
He walked to my wife, grabbed her face gently with both hands, fingers resting along her jawline, thumbs brushing her cheeks. He leaned down and kissed her forehead softly, lips lingering there for a long moment.
"Sudha... be careful with Giridhar Sir and the boys. They’ll try to pull you back in. Focus on your last semester... clear your degree... don’t entertain them anymore. You deserve better than that. If you ever need help — any help — call me. Anytime. Daddy’s here for you."
My wife looked up at him, large dark eyes soft and grateful, a small smile on her lips. She nodded slowly.
"Yes, Daddy... thank you... I’ll focus on my studies... I’ll clear my degree... I won’t let them distract me again..." she whispered, voice quiet and sincere, her boobs rising and falling calmly under the yellow saree and yellow blouse, nipples soft now against the white bra, her thick juicy thighs relaxed under the yellow saree folds and maroon panties, her pussy lips still tingling faintly under the maroon panties, her navel hidden but quivering slightly with emotion.
The cameraman released her face, stepped back, and smiled at both of us — warm, approving.
"Good. Go home now. Rest. Take care of each other."
My wife turned to me, slipped her hand into mine, fingers interlacing tightly, mangalsutra swaying as she moved. I squeezed her hand, feeling the warmth of her palm, the pulse in her wrist.
We walked out together — her yellow saree rustling softly with each step, anklets jingling, my dhoti brushing her hip, her boobs swaying gently under the yellow blouse and white bra, her pussy lips still sensitive under her maroon panties, her navel quivering with quiet contentment. We left the room, the cameraman watching us go with that same calm smile, the door closing softly behind us.
We were happy — deeply, quietly happy — walking home together, her hand in mine, her body mine again, her pussy, her boobs, her ass cheeks, her asshole, her clit, her navel, her thighs — all mine, safe, loved, and ready for whatever came next.
Months passed. My wife threw herself into her studies with fierce determination, attending every lecture, studying late into the nights, her boobs rising and falling calmly under her yellow blouse as she pored over books, her thick juicy thighs crossed under the table in her maroon panties, her pussy lips still sensitive under the cotton when she thought of what she’d overcome. She cleared every subject in her final semester — no distractions, no boys, no Giridhar Sir. Her results came, and she passed with flying colors, degree secured, her dream finally achieved.
We celebrated quietly at home — her in her favorite yellow saree, mangalsutra gleaming between her boobs, silver anklets jingling as she moved around the kitchen, preparing a simple meal, her navel visible through the low waist, her pussy mound outlined softly under the saree folds and maroon panties. She smiled at me across the table, large dark eyes bright with pride and relief.
"Rajesh... I did it... my degree... it’s done... I’m so happy..." she whispered, voice thick with emotion, boobs rising and falling under the yellow blouse, nipples soft against the white bra, her thick juicy thighs shifting under the yellow saree, her plump ass cheeks settling against the chair.
But the joy was short-lived. Our house construction — the dream home we’d started building — stalled. Funds ran dry. Workers left. Materials piled up unpaid. We sat on the unfinished floor one evening, her yellow saree tucked around her hips, navel quivering with worry, boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, pussy lips tingling faintly under her maroon panties as she leaned against me.
"Rajesh... we can’t lose this... our home... I’ll call him... Daddy... he said if I ever needed help..." she said quietly, voice trembling but resolute, large dark eyes meeting mine.
She dialed his number. He answered on the first ring.
"Daddy... it’s Sudha... we’re in trouble... the house... we can’t finish it... we need money... please..." she said, voice soft, boobs rising and falling quickly under the yellow blouse, nipples hardening slightly against the white bra with anxiety, her thick juicy thighs pressing together under the yellow saree, pussy mound shifting under the maroon panties.
He didn’t hesitate.
"Sudha... don’t worry... I’ll send it today. Enough to finish everything. Your home will be complete. You deserve it... after everything." he replied, voice calm, warm, paternal.
The money arrived within hours — more than enough. Workers returned. Construction resumed. Walls went up, roof completed, floors tiled, doors fitted. My wife supervised every detail, yellow saree rustling as she moved through the site, mangalsutra swaying between her boobs, silver anklets jingling, boobs bouncing gently under the yellow blouse, nipples soft against the white bra, her thick juicy thighs outlined under the saree folds and maroon panties, navel visible and quivering with excitement.
Finally, the house was done — our home, fully constructed, every room ours. We stood in the living room that evening, sunlight streaming through the windows, her yellow saree glowing, mangalsutra gleaming, silver anklets jingling as she turned to me, large dark eyes shining with joy.
"Rajesh... it’s ours... our home... I did it... we did it..." she whispered, stepping into my arms, boobs pressing against my chest through the yellow blouse and white bra, nipples soft against me, her thick juicy thighs brushing mine under the saree, pussy mound warm against my cock through my dhoti, clit pulsing faintly under her maroon panties, her navel quivering against my stomach, her plump ass cheeks clenching softly as I hugged her tight.
"Yes... ours... forever..." I murmured, hands sliding down to squeeze her ass cheeks, fingers digging into the plump flesh, middle finger brushing her asshole entrance through the saree and maroon panties, feeling her asshole clench in response.
She sighed happily, boobs rising and falling against me, nipples hardening slightly under the white bra, her thick juicy thighs trembling with quiet contentment, her pussy lips warm and satisfied under the maroon panties, her clit pulsing softly, her navel quivering with joy, her body completely mine, safe, loved, and home at last.
The housewarming celebration filled the living room and veranda with guests, laughter, music, and the aroma of food. My wife moved gracefully among them in her yellow saree, yellow blouse, yellow petticoat, white bra, maroon panties, mangalsutra gleaming between her boobs, silver anklets jingling softly with each step, boobs swaying gently under the blouse, navel visible through the low waist, thick juicy thighs outlined under the saree folds.
The cameraman arrived, carrying a small gift box. He smiled when he saw her — calm, paternal. She greeted him with a soft hug, boobs pressing briefly against his chest, nipples soft under the white bra, her pussy mound brushing his hip for a heartbeat, clit giving a faint throb under her maroon panties.
"Daddy... thank you for coming... thank you for everything," she whispered against his ear, voice low.
"Sudha... this home is beautiful... you deserve it," he replied quietly, hand resting briefly on her waist, fingers brushing her hip through the yellow saree.
I watched from across the room, cock stirring inside my white dhoti, heart pounding with pride and dark excitement. When the guests were distracted with food and conversation, I pulled my wife aside into the hallway.
"He helped us build this house... everything we have... tonight, as my gift to him... I want you to give yourself to him... let him enjoy your pussy... your boobs... your asshole... everything... in our bedroom. I’ll handle the guests in the living room."
Her large dark eyes widened, then softened with understanding, boobs rising and falling quickly under the yellow blouse, nipples hardening against the white bra, her thick juicy thighs pressing together under the yellow saree, pussy lips tingling under the maroon panties, clit pulsing with sudden heat.
"Yes... Rajesh... if that’s what you want... I’ll give him everything... for you... for us..." she whispered, voice trembling with arousal, navel quivering under the saree, plump ass cheeks clenching faintly.
I led her to our bedroom, the door closing softly behind us. The cameraman followed moments later, stepping inside, eyes dark with quiet hunger as he saw her standing there — yellow saree clinging to her boobs, navel exposed, thick juicy thighs outlined, mangalsutra gleaming.
I kissed her forehead once, then left the room, closing the door, returning to the living room to attend to the guests, laughter and music covering the sounds that would soon come from behind that door.
Inside the bedroom, the cameraman enjoyed her fully — her pussy, her boobs, her asshole, everything — while I stayed in the living room, greeting guests, smiling, pretending everything was normal, my cock hard inside my white dhoti, leaking precum, knowing she was giving herself to him as my gift, her boobs bouncing, her pussy stretched, her asshole clenching, her moans muffled behind the closed door.
The celebration continued outside, music playing, guests laughing, while inside our bedroom, the old man took what I offered — her body, her pleasure, her surrender — completely.
Years later, the cameraman — Daddy — fell gravely ill. Word reached us quietly. He was on his deathbed in his bungalow, body frail but mind still sharp, eyes still carrying that calm, knowing look.
He sent a message through his nurse: "Sudha... Rajesh... come. Before I go... I want to feel her one last time... just once more."
My wife read the message, large dark eyes filling with tears, boobs rising and falling quickly under her red blouse, nipples hardening against the white bra, thick juicy thighs pressing together under her red saree and white panties, pussy lips tingling with a rush of memory and grief. She looked at me, voice soft but steady.
"Rajesh... he helped us... gave us everything... our home... our life... if this is his last wish... I want to give it to him."
I nodded, cock stirring inside my white dhoti at the thought, heart heavy but accepting. We drove to his bungalow that evening.
He lay in his bedroom, thin and pale under the sheets, but his eyes lit up when he saw her — red saree rustling as she approached, mangalsutra gleaming between her boobs, silver anklets jingling softly. I stood by the door, watching.
"Sudha... my sweet girl... come here... let Daddy feel you one last time..." he whispered, voice weak but warm.
She stepped to the bed, climbed up carefully, straddling his hips over the sheet, pussy mound pressing against his cock through the red saree and white panties, clit throbbing softly. She leaned down, boobs pressing against his chest through the red blouse and white bra, nipples scbanging his skin, her thick juicy thighs trembling around his frail hips.
He grabbed her waist weakly, fingers pressing into her waist flesh, pulling her closer. She tugged the sheet down, exposing his cock — still thick, though weaker now.
She reached under her red saree and red petticoat, grabbed the waistband of her white panties with both hands, and pulled her white panties down her thick juicy thighs, sliding them over her knees, then over her calves, past her ankles, letting them drop to the floor beside the bed, anklets jingling faintly as her feet moved. Her pussy lips now fully exposed, swollen and glistening, clit throbbing visibly, pussy entrance open and ready.
She lowered herself slowly onto his cock, pussy lips parting around his thickness, pussy entrance stretching as she sank down inch by inch, pussy juices coating his cock shaft until his cock head pressed against her deepest pussy walls.
He fucked her pussy slowly, weakly, cock sliding in and out of her pussy, cock head rubbing her pussy walls, balls pressing against her asshole, his hands grabbing her boobs through the red blouse and white bra, squeezing the plump flesh gently, fingers pinching her nipples softly through the cotton, making them throb under his touch.
"Sudha... my sweet girl... your pussy... so warm... so tight... thank you... for giving Daddy this..." he whispered, voice fading, cock pulsing inside her pussy, balls pressing against her asshole.
"Daddy... I love you... enjoy my pussy... take everything... I’m yours..." she moaned softly, pussy clenching around his cock, clit throbbing against his cock base, asshole pulsing, boobs heaving under his hands, nipples throbbing through the white bra, thick juicy thighs trembling around his hips, plump ass cheeks clenching, navel quivering with emotion, riding him gently until his breathing slowed, his cock giving one last weak throb inside her pussy, a final soft spurt of cum leaking into her pussy channel, his hands falling limp from her boobs.
She stayed on him a long moment, pussy clenching softly around his cock, clit pulsing against his cock base, tears slipping down her cheeks, boobs heaving slowly, nipples softening under the white bra, thick juicy thighs trembling around his hips, plump ass cheeks settling against his hands, navel quivering with grief and love.
A couple of days later, he passed quietly in his sleep.
In his will, he left everything to me — all his properties, his savings, and the bungalow where so much had happened. We received the documents a week later, the house now legally ours, a final gift from the man who had changed everything.
We lived happily — deeply, quietly happily — in our completed home, her red saree rustling through the rooms, mangalsutra gleaming between her boobs, silver anklets jingling as she moved, boobs swaying gently under the red blouse and white bra, pussy lips warm and satisfied under her white panties, navel quivering with contentment, her thick juicy thighs relaxed, her plump ass cheeks soft, her body completely mine, safe, loved, and at peace.
Our life together — built on everything that came before — finally ours, forever.
The End
Regards
Novelist Casanova
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