Bath Time Is The Best Time for Big Tits Arab Pornstar Mia Khalifa (mk13783)

“Dedicated to my girlfriend and her favorite fantasy.”

The wind hurled itself after her graceful ankles, which escaped the rapidly narrowing opening of the front door. The toe tip of her other stiletto shoved the door close. The heavy door shushed the tantrum of the storm rampaging through the trees and bushes like a mad gorilla. In that silence, the skinny black leather vines of the stiletto exuded their power of wrapping around the slender bones, protrusions, and micro-joints of her foot like baby snakes or vines retaining her foot in bondage. Her toenails were painted in gentle baby blue. The head manicurist had painted a thick layer of gloss on top to elevate those marvelous toes to the level of a museum piece in a showcase.

All around her skin was youthful and moistened from the tender care of Korean slave labor inhaling toxic fumes for minimum wage. She was the boss. Daddy had paid for a top of the line art school. A gaggle of fear-paled minions followed her around. The gestures of coffee and gifts handed to her endeared her with herself. People loved her. She was loved. All those nights reading Brene Brown had finally paid off.

She did her evening walk-in dance. Her knee raised as high as the very tight, black pencil skirt allowed. Her hand struggled to reach the stiletto heel. Her torso fought against losing balance. She couldn’t care to take the time. The stiletto resisted a bit, hugging onto her foot like a sleepy koala to its favorite eucalyptus tree. There, it went off! The bare foot slapped the cold smooth marble wetly. The tock of the other stiletto stopped as well as she went after it. The stilettos reeled on their sides like dying soldiers in a battle field reaching a hand out for help in vain. They were dropped right where they came off.

The black iPhone vibrated, “Sarah, where are the projections? You were supposed to know that we need those tomorrow morning!”

Her face darkened. Her throat tightened. Aghast, emotion of anger overcame her, a suffocating clasp tightened around her. Her mind blacked with rage. The iPhone shot into the big white sectional and slipped into the gap between the seat and back cushion. She released her long curly red hair to tumble down her shoulders like a waterfall. The red had a deepness. The shaded strands were pitch black. The lighted strands shone in different translucent red colors depending on the angle of the light. There was a rich, full, and solid red in the half shadow. The strands that got hit straight on by light burst into a translucent, glowing red. One could get lost into marveling at the color, a vanity project to determine her true color without all those plays and tricks of light.

She had stumbled into the kitchen without turning any light on. Deep familiarity had bred her sense of navigation in the half-light. She rested her arms on the granite kitchen counter with straight elbows. Most of her weight towered over the counter to ease the pressure on her feet and back. A bolt of lightning lit up the whole kitchen with bright white light. The kitchen was built into a giant alcove with big windows going all around it like a cockpit. The exposure to the outside created a sense of being right in the garden where the leaves of flowers and bushes were dearly tormented. The downpour of the summer storm had just started its deluge. The plants were still in shock by the heaviness of the water and hadn’t turned desolate and bored from the constant downpour yet. Nature was filled with electricity and static that was eager to be relieved. The thunder rolled in thirty seconds later. The heart of the storm was still far away. The heavy windows and solid brick walls muffled nature’s rage to the gentle snuffing of a baby in its sleep. The air inside was so stolid like the molecules had been parked in the exact same spot for hours.

She pored over the handwritten note on the counter: “Dear Madame Sarah, I am so sorry but the baker missed the delivery today. I could not make you dinner. However, I got one of my husband’s Hungry Man microwave dinners. It’s in the top shelf in the fridge. Set the timer to 30 seconds. Again, I am very, very sorry. – Maria”

The red crept outwards from her nose across her cheeks. At the outer edges of the cheeks, the solid red turned into blotchy islands. Fierce fingers grabbed the paper by the face and crushed it into a ball. A rough pitcher throw jettisoned the paper ball onto the perfectly cleaned, so clean to be ready to be licked, floor. “Just get it done, you cunt. There are a dozen bakers in the city,” hissed her snake tongue with poison. Her green eyes glared.

Her butt spun around to feel the curved hardness of the granite counter. Then she let herself glide to the ground. Her back dragged along the doors of the counter. She could feel the nuances of the doorknobs and carvings. When her butt was touched by the ground, a heaviness came over her and she let it out. Dejected, sad, hopeless, beaten up, worn down, the tears started running down her face. The sobbing overcame her. Her chest was torn and jerked by uneven and uncontrollable gasps.

The house was empty. The beautiful mansion in the countryside right outside the city stood with a prowess. Like the Queen’s Guard in London, the mansion always looms majestic, large, exquisitely provisioned and crafted, even in its darkest and saddest, it cannot let down the decorum. The strength of its stone knows that it will last for decades and centuries. Generations will come and go as it stands like a proud soldier. All that pride, all those cavernous rooms, all that unfilled emptiness stared right at Sarah, it stared with a silent accusation that drives the dagger deeper than any word could.

She was all but a small woman by herself. Her laughter could not fill the halls, not even if she’d scream at the top of her lungs. The spaciousness would suck the volume out of the sound like an astronaut suffocates silent like a lamb screaming at the top of her lungs in the vacuum of outer space.

Her tits hung free underneath the white office blouse, which showed her cleavage all the way down to the button at the underside of her boobs. They shivered with the sobs. Soft ripples went across the tissue. They had a titillating contrast of neither being soft but also revealing the pull of gravity on the skin above her boobs. Her sexy body was trim, slender, and tall, a complete contrast to her face. She had an “aw face”: “Aw, that puppy is so cute!”, “Aw, that is so sad!”, and “Aw, you are the sweetest.” The well trained facial expression was so heartfelt and endearing to people that strangers would melt at being understood, cared for, and loved. The expression had eaten itself into her resting face. Her sexy body and that aw face were a sweet, delicious, confusing, sex drive crushing, and rock hard cock titillating contradiction.

The tears dried up. She peeled herself out of the constricting office blouse and wiggled herself out of that tight office pencil dress with the deep cut on her way up the kitchen counter back to standing. Walking in her baby blue lace thong, she bent over to pick up the crumbled paper note. Her butt cheeks swelled up big and juicy while spreading away from the thong to show her barely covered freckle. She tossed the note out into the trash.

She walked back into the living room. She searched for her iPhone. She walked up the showcase stairs. The stairs were built to take up visible prominence and create an entrance for whomever graced down to enter a social party. She grabbed her laptop from the bedroom on the way to the workout room. She put her barely naked butt on the $10,000 spinning machine with the laptop on the handlebars. Red Beats headphones stuck in her ear canal. Rage Against The Machine beat with the intensity of steel pipes smacking down on steel at full volume. She powered her anger into the pedals. Her fingers ran over the keyboard like freak on speed. Numbers, tables, and charts popped up and got beaten into merciless submission. Her skin quickly glistened. A steady stream of sweat created a river running down her spine. The vertebras created little steps for the water to drip down. The strong back muscles created high river banks.

Time seemed to stand still for an intense two hours power session. With a satisfying tap, she sent the e-mail out. “Who’s the ice queen, you asshole?”

The rain outside had calmed to a steady downpour. The wind and intensity were gone. Just as she had worked intensely and steadily, the rain was working hard to pour as much water out of the clouds as it could without any of the drama of an un-smooth operation. The lightning center of the storm had never come. It had passed down a far way off. All there would be for the night would be the steady downpour that she had become familiar with on the outskirts of Paris.

She grabbed a bottle from here wine refrigerator, the pride of accomplishment of any girl, and a wine glass that Maria always kept ready for her on the counter. She loved the elegance of the curvature on the glass, the pleasure of swirling the red around the rim of the glass to investigate the color, and the narrow opening that channeled the fumes to her nose to take an intoxicating sniff of honey, lavender, coal, or whatever scents the grapes delicately absorbed from their environment and worked into multi-dimensional flavor. She wasn’t a drunk who simply drowned her sorrows in alcohol. She was a connoisseur of an ancient craft. Really! Pinky swear!

Already in her underwear, she walked into the bathroom. She opened the bathtub faucet. The water roared out. The water pressed so hard through the pipe that it seemed to expand as it broke into freedom. The water plume was even larger than the big faucet. She sad on the edge of the bathtub with her knees pressed together. Her hand swayed gentle figure eights into the warm water. The honey and milk powder turned the clear water into opaque, white milk.

The contrast to her skin was fascinating. She was extremely white even for a white person. Her skin hid all veins and redness. It was white with such a purity to inspire marvel. Yet the white of the milk bath and the white of her skin seemed so different, like two worlds apart. The white of the milk bath was an exact white, a precise formulation that reflected all light equally to create the sensation of white in the eye cone receptors. Her white was more magical, like that of an elf living in the forest. Her white was a white that was beyond white. Some magical concoction tricked one’s eyes to see a darker white. Closely observing her limb submerge in the milk white, there was a tinge of pink to her skin’s hue actually.

Bam, the light went out. The alarm system did a shrill double beep to announce that it switched to battery. The neighbor’s house beyond the high hedges went black as well. Just the way of life in the country. She sighed but not without letting a little smirk of joy play with the corner of her lips. She got the candles out. She carefully heated one candle bottom with the flame of another candle to make it soft and gooey. Then she held the candles in place around the edge of the bathtub until the wax cooled and hardened again. Giant shadows played on the wall like monsters lurking and dashing around. The flickering light and leaping shadows created the portentous atmosphere of a story teller building the setting of a terrifying tale with hand puppets or marionettes to scare the kids.

She liked to focus on the warmth and romance that the candles brought. The light softened her face, a sexy magical kind of slow, feminine seduction. She slipped her thong off and glid into the enveloping warmth. A soft gasp escaped her mouth. Her eyes gently closed as her head sunk backwards to rest. The candles still flickered color onto her closed eyelids, a dark red-orange. The whole house had silenced to receive any stray water dropping sound to carry it through all its rooms and up the stairs. She raised her beautifully painted toes out of the water. An errant drop ran down her big toe and made a tiny, baritone bloop sound as it hit the water and sent ripples across the surface. The quiet house let that sound fill the bathroom, travel out the door, lurk around all the downstairs rooms, and climb up the stairs to let its childlike curiosity run free outside of the area that she could sense.

Made aware of the impact of her sound, Sarah listened with complete stillness. The emptiness was so perfect that she could feel the emptiness listen back at her. Her heart beat a little faster as if she had met an opponent face to face, staring down each other. Whoever would break the gaze first would lose and be beaten down.

A little panic overcame her. With all the emotion, stress, and work, she hadn’t felt the moment. Being so still with no inner or outer emotion pulling on her, she woke up in that moment. “I am here in this moment right now. This bathtub is real. I can feel my body. I can feel my skin. I can feel my emotions.” The Taoist monk teacher had taught her about that moment. Don’t run away. Breathe. Breathe consciously. Breathe and embrace what you feel.

Her breathing softened. Her facial features softened. All the 43 muscles in her face started softening. Her body followed. She fell into a slumber. She didn’t quite snore, but it was a bit more than heavy breathing. It was a puttering sound that came from her. Her mouth dropped open. The minutes went by and a little drool started running out of her mouth, not the foamy stuff but the liquid stuff. The candles slowly burned down to half way creating ornamental heaps of wax wither rivulets running down the bathtub. She didn’t hear the double beep when the alarm system had run out of battery and shut itself down.

A sudden shiver of cold ran down her spine. She fought against rousing herself out of the slumber, but the cold water had drained warmth out of her body. Very reluctantly, she opened her eyes. A man was standing there. His face watched her. Her vision expanded to take in more. His face was big and firm like that of a strong man. His eyes lacked care, like a man who had been working a machine for many hours. He was medium tall but bulky. He wore a raincoat, the style of a working man. The raincoat was dry. That realization sent a creepy shock to her bones.

She swiftly pushed her arms against the bathtub, tucked her feet under her butt in an effort to rise up. Instantly, the man leapt forward and on top of her. His chest crashed against her head sending her tumbling back. His real goal had been her wrists. His big brawns restrained her tender wrists. Feeling herself in battle, instinctively, she thrashed to get loose. Her feet kicked up tidal waves of water. Water splashed everywhere. Her wrists wriggled as hard as she could. The man had to push his whole weight onto her. His clothes got soaked in water. Shrieks rang out of her lips, while the man grunted with strain into her ear.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” were the words of her self-defense coach ringing in her ears. “Don’t stop until he is gone.” Her slender body was toned from spinning. She could spin for hours at a speed that would exhaust most people, but she had little strength. Her elbows swung wildly while her wrists couldn’t move in the restraint. He started to huff with struggle, while she was only warming up. As long as she fought, he wouldn’t get his dick in.

When his breathing got really hard, he lifted off her. She set after him sending her hands to pummel his chest. Angry hisses doubled down, “Fuck you, you bastard!”

He was too out of breath to reply to her taunts. Instead, he slapped her across the face. Her cheeks ever so gently rouged right away. He slapped the other cheek. He slapped the first cheek. “Shut up, you cunt!” She looked at him dazed from the slaps for a moment but continued fighting him right away.

He was upset. Obviously, he had thought his plans much simpler. He set back for a little bit while she pummeled him, which seemed nothing more than a firm chopping massage to him. Then he grabbed her bare, wet ankle with that pure white skin. His hands were rough from working and darkened from a summer under the sun. He pulled her out of the bathtub by her ankle. He dragged her out of the bathroom and down the hallway.

She tried hitting him but being dragged backwards, her hands couldn’t reach. She tried to crunch with great effort to get closer. She tried to kick the leg that was pulling her. That took great effort because bending her knee pulled her whole body closer. With fire, she kept moving and wriggling while the stoic man walked down the hallway. He was twice her weight. She left a wet trail on the floor. Her whole body was dripping water. Her boobs were naked. The thrashing exposed her sex, legs split wide open.

He found her lace thong on the floor. With a smile, he grabbed it and tied her wrist behind her back. She was relegated to rolling her body around as he pulled her up the stairs, carefully not to hit her head on the stairs. She hated being pulled by her leg like an animal. She realized that her wriggling probably didn’t do anything but she kept doing it anyway. There was no other option but to give up.

She felt the soft cotton rug of upstairs under her body. The man was huffing and puffing. She heard the click of the bedroom door opening. He dragged her up onto her king sized bed. It was one of those romantic purchases for when she’d have a husband. It had four bed posts that created a canopy over the bed. The bedding was oversized and overflowing.

He straddled her bare chest. Her tied hands hurt behind her back. He seemed to slow down with methodical purpose. He grabbed a pillow and pulled the cover off. He repeated the same. Then, he let go of her chest to grab the ankle again. She used the moment to go at him again with all her physically restrained might. He only held onto her ankle and shielded the ankle with his body from her blows and sight. She felt him doing something to the ankle with the pillow. Then he let go.

She kicked the ankle hard. It didn’t move. It was stuck in the pillow. He had tied her foot to one bedpost. Before that fully sunk in, he had grabbed her other ankle and shielded it again from her with her body. She fought hard to move her ankle. But he had pinned her thigh between his arm and the side of his body. He was like a bull. The unstoppable object had met the immovable obstacle. The ten seconds that it took him to tie her other leg to the other bedpost went by quickly.

Her legs were spread so wide that it was hard to move. She could thrash around a bit, but to little effect. He admired her for a moment, towering over her at safe distance to watch her struggle have come to an end and her sex all exposed. He watched her pussy lips. She had shaved it neatly. The skin was smooth. She could have been a porn star with that pussy.

“Bertrand?” she exclaimed with a wide open mouth.

“I wouldn’t have thought that you remembered me, you uppity bitch, much less remember my name,” replied the man – just a little older than her but having worked his entire life from teenager until now.

“I’ll report you to the police, you pig. You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison getting gang raped!” she spat at him.

“Well, I was going to talk to you about that,” he reached into his back pocket and pulled her black iPhone out. “What’s your PIN number?”

“Fuck you!” she hissed at him.

“Okay, we can do this the easy way or the hard way!” Bertrand said calmly.

“Hard way! Ph! You don’t even know what hard means, you limp dick cockroach!” hissed Sarah.

Bertrand made a reluctant facial expression. He slowly walked around the side of the bed, while she watched him defiantly. He sat down next to her as if he was going to take his time with a long explanation. Instead his hand raised up, moved closer to her face, and covered her mouth. Before she realized what was happening, the hand pinned her head down to the mattress. The index finger and thumb squeezed her nose. She felt a sudden lack of ability to breathe. Her eyes widened. She held her breath. She panicked. She fought.

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