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A son and a daughter. The daughter is married in Bangalore and her son in the US. She shuttles to the US 3 months in a year. Around 1 month she spends with her daughter in Bangalore. She is a woman of 48 yrs with a figure of 36/32/38. Though her boobs droop a bit it but it does not show as she wears tight bras.Being alone and not much Computer literate she has not kept a computer at home. But as a couple of months got by with me staying as her neighbor she used to occasionally bring me food or tea when I came home from work. It all started when I was sick and could not go out to have food so she took it upon herself to look after me. She would bring my food and give me my medicine. During those days she kept a spare key with her so that when she came to give me my food I was not disturbed. Seeing my fever taking long to come down and I not being able to take a bath she made me allow her to sponge me. I felt odd but she said not to worry. During her sponges, she would just put the wet. He lay down beside me on the bed and told me how beautiful I was. He leaned over me and when I felt his lips on mine I kissed back reflexively. I wanted to bring my arms around him, to reach out and touch him, but I found myself tugging at the bonds. His kiss was demanding and passionate. All of my response was channeled through my lips. It was all I had in contact with him. It was probably the most passionate kiss I have ever given, and Marc could feel it too. As we broke the kiss, he sighed, "Ohhhhhh, I think this is going to be good". He kissed me on the lips a few more times and then worked his way over to my ears and neck, and then started kissing towards my breasts. As his mouth kissed around nipple I lifted it for him to kiss, he broke away for a moment and when he came back down his cold lips wet from champagne enveloped my nipple and the feeling was like getting hit with an electric shock. He sucked and then gently bit my nipple and flicked it with his tongue. Again, his.
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It was never clear. She couldn’t tell fortunes, there were just some things she knew, intensely, viscerally. Her life was marked by a series of such signposts. She had known she would marry Fyodr, had known, too, that she would never see him again the day he left for the war. She had mourned him in her heart from that moment. There had been a letter, written by one of the professional letter-writers. She had taken it into the village and paid to hear it read. It was just like Fyodr, full of hearty cheer and optimism. She smiled at that. Now it was nearly Christmas and the winter had set in hard. Her hut at the edge of the wood was sheltered from the worst of the weather but still there was a foot and more of snow on the roof and she had to dig her path clear every day. She made her way down to the river each morning and broke the ice to draw water. She was worried about her pigs and thought she might have to slaughter most of them. Perhaps she could trade some of the meat for salt.

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