Indian Aunty Feeling Sexual Pleasure

Love you.Love you, she messaged back, but I was already asleep.“So, you were with Mom,” Zuri said the next day.We were close enough to the polis now to see the taller buildings leaning toward us on the upcurve of the habitat. Mother walked a few meters ahead, a factotum on either side of her, while Zuri shuffled forwards slowly, hands spanned across her low round belly. Two of the featureless white automatons flanked us, close enough to be of immediate assistance in an emergency, but far enough to provide a sense of privacy.Startled, I turned my head. “She told you?”“Of course.” Zuri paused, breathing quietly through a few more steps. Then: “How was it?”“Different. Nice.” Thinking for a moment, I lowered my voice to add: “But I don’t think she enjoyed it very much.”“She hasn’t grown up with you the way I have.”“Maybe that’s it.”There was another long moment of silence as we walked. “I don’t want you to do that again,” she said determinedly.I frowned. “What — be with mother?”“Yes. I. My wife Karen, 5'9" brunette c-cup weighing a good 150lbs with hips ass and things. She was never a big fan of the shop and the financial strain it put on us from the start, but she loves me and knew that the shop was part of me. So she helped out when she could, after her regular full time hours as a head receptionist in a doctors office. Most of the time she was working at the shop, that just meant watching tv or being on her phone behind the front counter while I worked in the back, or hanging out with Diego and distracting him from his work because she was bored, or coming with me to trade shows, which were a real timesuck for her. That's how she knew Neal, from the three or four shows we would do each year. Our booth would be modest, while his would be extravagant. Neither of us liked him. He would always hire tacky bikini models and give away big prizes and at the end of each show he would stop by and chat and always make a joke about me getting Karen in a bikini to help.
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