Squatter Sex

Who knows how many years in the ancient palace did not enter living soul. The keys had worked still and we had slipped inside the door trying to escape the gaze of the passers-by.

Walking on the disheveled floor of the entrance, we came to the arch that opened on the large staircase illuminated by the gray skylight light. My wife got to the luxurious marble ruined stairs before me: black suede boots on the knee; dark skirt, also knee-high, with a deep splash that nearly reached the ass; gray veiled stockings and suspenders. Always her little ass, framed almost all year by the sign of the summer bikini slip, seduced me. And now, up the stairs, my dick became harder. At the first floor our game began: I leaned with my face toward the wall and lowered to my knee underwear and pants; she raised her skirt and began rubbing her pussy shaved in a perfect triangle on my ass and my thighs. I could feel her moods leaving the mark on my skin as snail. "I'm ready," she said after not much. We inverted our position. She, with her hands on the wall, offered her ass to my dick. I spit on her little hole, spit on my glans and, without much effort, I entered. Very few flashes and our orgasms began together. I slipped out of her ass, and as she continued to torture her clitoris with one hand, I squeezed my semen on her gray veined thighs. A thunder swept the air of late autumn afternoon; a sudden heavy rain began to drum on the skylight glass; a little mouse, squinting, ran away.