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She went to the kitchen and I started going through the lessons and in between I watched her. She came back after 15 – 20 minutes. And she asked can we start, I nodded my head. After one and a half hours she give a break and offered me a coffee. After in a hour itself she completed the lessons. And she asked me if you have any doubts ask me now. I said no mam it all clear.I was about to leave , but she stopped me and I have something to ask you. I sat on the sofa itself, and she sat near to me. I was stuck by her question that why my thing was so hard that day (she used thing instead of saying cock). I just stay silent, without saying a word. She put her hand on my shoulder and said just think that I am your best friend and I will not say it any one. It give me little confidence , I was shivering inside. Again she asked is that I make it hard?. And I nodded my head. She said don’t be afraid, I am happy that it gets hard by me. I was surprised by her words.I was little bit afraid,. You get your drink from the bartender, an excellent single malt scotch on the rocks, and I whisper in your ear that I want to go exploring in this fantastic house. You smile, and place your warm hand on the small of my back and guide me down a long hallway, finally ending up in a large library room. We’ve left the noise and buzz of the party behind, and we’re completely alone in here, but we know someone could come in at any moment. There are no lights on in the library, but some scattered candles are lit and one of the walls is lined with large windows, letting the light from tonight’s nearly full moon stream inside. You turn to me and gently caress my cheek with your hand, turning my face up towards yours as you lean in for a long, soft kiss. I let out a sigh as the kiss ends. You reach down and softly touch one of my breasts, lightly teasing the nipple through the silky fabric, smiling as you confirm your suspicions that I am not wearing a bra. You set down your drink on a.
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She put down her fork, lifted her napkin to wipe her mouth, and then said, ‘So, Deacon, when do we get to meet Miranda?’ ‘Oh!’ my father whispered in understanding. My mother stared at me, smiling calmly. ‘Miranda?’ I choked out, mostly to stall. I wasn’t prepared to explain anything. My default would be to tell them exactly what had happened (sparing certain intimate details, of course), but I knew the real account would not be well-received. ‘Deacon, the house is clean and comfortable, you have a new wardrobe and a new hairstyle… For goodness’ sake, Deacon, you’re wearing a wedding ring.’ I winced and looked at my hand. Neither Miranda nor I had thought about the rings. For several months I had hardly noticed its presence. ‘But… but… how did you…’ My father, still chewing, said, ‘You got some mail today for someone named ‘Miranda Kirsch.’ So we put two and two and two together…’ ‘So?’ my mother interrupted. ‘Do we get to meet her?’ ‘She’s visiting some friends right now,’.

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