I call my friend's mom Mummy. Mummy wears only saree at home; Mummy never wears bra while at home; Mummy's figure is short, sexy, right size breasts and correct size ass. Her color is white and texture of the skin is amazing; she's actually around 50 years old but her body doesn't show the age. Her hair is pure black and she doesn't dye her hair at all. Since she was 37 till 48 she didn't get fucked much as her husband was working at overseas. But I'm sure she'll get fucked every once in two years when her husband comes back home for vacation.
Man spilling blood in honourable, woman spilling blood is unclean, what logic is that?
I am Rohan. I am nineteen. I am in the second year of my bachelor degree course in engineering in a college near the extreme southern tip of India. My family consists of my father, a retired accountant from the revenue department, my mother, a housewife, and my elder sister. Her name is Sarala, but as I am younger I cannot call her by name. I call her Akka, which in the Tamil language means elder sister. She is 23 years old. After graduation she is at home waiting for marriage.
I have been thinking a lot recently about relationships and aging. Two obvious reasons come to my mind. My wife and I just got back from a reunion and I had to bump up the age in my Literotica profile. I'm not complaining. All things considered, my wife and I have had a pretty good life. Judging from the events of the last reunion, that's not about to change any time soon.
We were finally ready to leave having packed off the kids to my parents place for the next four days. I am Raj 40yrs 5'10" very overworked and a very fit 170 pounds. I take time off from the office to hit the gym or pool at 8 pm everyday. My wife Priya is also a very fit 115 pounds, 5'4" with a 34b-25-34 figure.
I heard my name being called out from the midst of the teeming horde pressing in on the barriers after customs in New Delhi's Indira Gandhi international airport, and a head and arm waving a sign was bouncing up and down over the tumult. The sign the young man was carrying said "Clifford Jenkins" with "New York" written under it. That was me. But I wasn't being met by anyone that I knew of.