She wore a three quarter sleeve blue and pink chiffon dress which had a slightly fitted bodice, with buttons that stopped at her waist. A blue and pin... sash tied like a belt around her waist and the fitted bodice gave way to an ankle length flowing skirt. The dress was light and summery, yet it wasn't in anyway see through. Fatima wore a matching pink and blue push up bra which allowed her breasts to nicely define the front of the blouse but it still remained modest and decent for a Muslim. My hands moved from her breasts to the back of her neck as she lifted her head, allowing me more access. I increased the pressure and was met with greater moaning as her hands gripped the sides of the sofa and her body raised to meet mine, I could feel legs wrap around my waist and the space between press against my rapidly growing erection. To her obvious annoyance, I removed my lips from her neck and inspected my handiwork and to my delight, a large purple mark was clearly visible just above. And when she tries to withdraw and ran away from her problems and/or me, I run along side her until she gets tired so we can talk it out. I’m not afraid to hurt her feelings and fight with her. It’s her that I want to fight with, nobody else. I have and will always be brutally honest with her, no matter the personal consequences I might endure and/or whether I could avoid it with a ‘little white lie’. It’s just too painful dreaming of her every day of my life. I dream that I am her hero,. “Okay. The coffee will be a few minutes. I made a new pot,” I said.“Dave, I know this may seem a little strange me being here, sitting here, given everything. But, I just wanted to see you, talk to you a little bit. It was a spur of the moment decision; I made it in the car on the way over.“I have to say; I was afraid, well anyway, I decided to risk it,” she said. I had to smile.“Really,” I said.“You’re smiling can I count that as a good thing?” she said.“I guess. But...”“Yeah me either,” she.
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