Indian Summer

The air was laced with hints of jasmine and rosewater and foreign spices that still startled Elizabeth's nose every time she visited. She stretched out languidly on the bed, looking towards the door as Kumar entered.

He still was quite handsome, the pepper yielding more and more to salt every year. But as an actor, he aged gracefully, aided by workouts and some touchups by the finest surgeons India had to offer. He split his time between Mumbai and America, inviting the buxom brunette harlot to spend some time with him. And while she didn't always say yes, she did this time, bringing the daughter they shared for a full month in India.

Kumar paid the transactional fee for such a long period of course -- Lamar would have scalped her for leaving so long without his coffers stuffed. But these moments were nice, just the two of them, a feeling of what she used to have, so long ago.

Kumar was hirsute, thick hair from his chest down to his groin and ass. His large thick cock was already half-staff, and he bore two cups of cardamom-infused tea. So foreign, Elizabeth thought, sipping it delicately. After they finished their tea, he gave her a look and she smiled, rolling over. Her men ... plural, she thought, something that had taken her time to adjust to ... all liked their particular tattoo that they had marked her with. Kumar's was the most indelible, a tigress that took up most of an asscheek, and she wobbled it back and forth obligingly as the silver fox pushed his thick cock into her. Her cunt walls, well-pounded by years of fat ethnic cock, hugged the thick prick obligingly. He fucked her with his thick brown prick, tugging at her lush mane until he buried himself to the hilt, cumming, long, thick rich ropes of stallion seed. He was, Elizabeth thought as she panted, coming down from her own orgasm, an ideal mate. But only one of several.