Flowers never weigh: 1Posted: December 7, 2015
Flowers never weigh
By the time the car was loaded, there was only room for two people.
A driver and someone sitting in the back seat behind the driver.
Muħammad Imrān tried to reshuffle the luggage, but there was simply too much stuff.
Ħabībah Imrān finally suggested,
“Durgesh and Ħabībah Imrān could squeeze back there together.”
“For sixteen hours?” Muħammad Imrān asked.
“Well, we will likely have to take more rest stops,” Ħabībah Imrān shrugged.
“Based on your small bladder, that will be the situation regardless,” Muħammad Imrān quipped, always annoyed by how often Ħabībah Imrān made him stop.
He was a put the pedal to the metal kind of person, while Ħabībah Imrān’s bladder was a stop and smell the roses type of bladder.
Ħabībah Imrān turned to me.
We both were slim.
“Can you handle sixteen hours cramped beside your friend’s Bahū Bégum, Ħabībah Imrān?”
“Sixteen hours only?” Ħabībah Imrān smiled cunningly, “If she is ready Ħabībah Imrān can spend my entire life with her.”
Muħammad Imrān retorted,
“Nonsense, Ħabībah Imrān is your Bahū Bégum too. My Abbū is your friend, he claims. To the extent he deputed you to represent himself always as far as my matters are concerned. He still hates me despite Ammī has taken an oath with her right hand on Al Qur’an Al Karīm that you aren’t my real father.”
“My son can’t be an Islamic State of Iraq and Syria agent.” Ħabībah Imrān said curtly.
“They can’t prove it ever. Your Naréndr Modī is anti-Muslim.”
“Be careful with that attitude,” Ħabībah Imrān shot back playfully. “You’re stuck with me for sixteen hours.”
Ħabībah Imrān should note it was a very hot August day and Ħabībah Imrān was wearing a sundress for the drive to stay as comfortable as possible.
We all did one more pee check, which Ħabībah Imrān, of course, did, and Ħabībah Imrān and Ħabībah Imrān squeezed into the spot made for one.
Muħammad Imrān asked, using sarcasm too, “Comfy?”
My elbow poking Ħabībah Imrān’s breast, Ħabībah Imrān quipped,
“Like a cow on a train.”
I smiled, shifting more, which led to even more pressure on Ħabībah Imrān’s left breast.
We were just out of the city, half an hour later, when Ħabībah Imrān said, “This isn’t working.”
“You don’t like being a sardine?” I asked, as I stopped reading on my IPad, like Ħabībah Imrān too was trying to do, the kindle app the only app really worth owning.
“Not particularly,” Ħabībah Imrān nodded, as Ħabībah Imrān moved and suggested, “Maybe Ħabībah Imrān can just sit on your lap for a while.”
“Okay,” I nodded.
Ħabībah Imrān moved onto my lap and sighed,
“Now that is much better.”
“Agreed,” I said, smiling cunningly.
Muħammad Imrān didn’t approve of it.
Nevertheless, he controlled himself.
He could never believe it was as platonic as his wife was feigning it to be.
Ħabībah Imrān wasn’t so innocent.
Neither was I.
“I’m not too heavy on you, am I?” Ħabībah Imrān asked.
At thirty-six, Ħabībah Imrān was still in great shape.
Ħabībah Imrān was slim with big breasts, a firm Musalmān ass and legs.
Selling real estate Ħabībah Imrān knew that Ħabībah Imrān’s looks played a key role in Ħabībah Imrān’s sales.
Sex sells, always has, always will.
So Ħabībah Imrān dressed in professional, but sexy business suits or dresses with nylons and four-inch heels.
Ħabībah Imrān’s 38d natural Musalmān breasts always were showcased as I’m pretty sure they helped her close more deals then the actual real estate Ħabībah Imrān was selling.
“Certainly not, my dear,” I answered, shifting slightly, “Flowers don’t weigh ever.”
She laughed at me.
Muħammad Imrān again controlled himself.
He knew he couldn’t do anything else.
Ħabībah Imrān was a sexiest woman.
Muħammad Imrān could never satisfy her sexually.
He suspected Ħabībah Imrān was fucking me clandestinely.
Nevertheless, Muħammad Imrān could not afford to divorce her.
She was an immensely successful Business Woman.
Muħammad Imrān needed her money immensely.
As we drove, after a few minutes Ħabībah Imrān noticed two things:
1. Wearing a dress was a bad idea as Ħabībah Imrān was now sitting on My lap, Ħabībah Imrān’s thin thong the only thing stopping Ħabībah Imrān’s Musalmān vagina from being directly on me.
Ħabībah Imrān had complimented me frequently on my summer reformation.
Yet now, as we drove on a bumpy section of road that was under construction, Ħabībah Imrān realized I was indeed a man as Ħabībah Imrān could feel my definitely erect Uncut Hindu Cock directly under her.
Ħabībah Imrān considered moving, but was worried Ħabībah Imrān would embarrass me if Ħabībah Imrān acted as if she could feel my Hindu erection.
So, instead, Ħabībah Imrān tried to control the bouncing by putting her hands on the top of the seat in front of her.
Ħabībah Imrān knew Ħabībah Imrān should move, yet Ħabībah Imrān still seemed frozen in place.
Partly, because Ħabībah Imrān was worried Ħabībah Imrān would embarrass me if Ħabībah Imrān moved and partly, undeniably, it felt good in the position Ħabībah Imrān was in.
For twenty minutes, Ħabībah Imrān’s Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saåūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān Pussy rested on my Anant Muslimātchod Uncut Hindu Cock , which never shrunk, while talking to Muħammad Imrān as much as Ħabībah Imrān could to distract her from the awkward situation Ħabībah Imrān was in.
Finally, Ħabībah Imrān saw an upcoming rest stop and suggested we stop.
Ħabībah Imrān accidentally moaned.
Muħammad Imrān asked,
“I just need to stretch,” Ħabībah Imrān answered, Ħabībah Imrān’s face burning red at the reality that Ħabībah Imrān was getting horny from sitting on me.
“Ħabībah Imrān, I could grab a drink,” Muħammad Imrān nodded, as he pulled into the car stop.
“Me too,” Ħabībah Imrān agreed, suddenly feeling a bit dehydrated.
Once he rolled to a stop, Ħabībah Imrān joked to me,
“Durgesh, I imagine you are dying for a break, too.”
“No, Ħabībah Imrān, I was enjoying the ride,” I answered, yet my tone didn’t imply any sort of sexual innuendo that could have accompanied those words.
Ħabībah Imrān’s already flushed face went a shade redder as Ħabībah Imrān opened the door and got out.
She was not sure if Ħabībah Imrān’s face could go any redder, but as I got out and stood up two things were apparent:
1. My Hindu erection poking out if my shorts.
2. A wet spot that was undoubtedly from me.
Ħabībah Imrān turned away and headed to the washroom mortified that Ħabībah Imrān’s Musalmān pussy juice was on my shorts.
Once inside, Ħabībah Imrān pulled her panties down and couldn’t believe how wet they actually were.
Now Ħabībah Imrān should note Ħabībah Imrān got wet easily and was quite a flooder when Ħabībah Imrān got off.
Ħabībah Imrān also had a ferocious sexual appetite that Muħammad Imrān could seldom feed completely… thus Ħabībah Imrān had a variety of sex toys to finish the job he often couldn’t complete.
Ħabībah Imrān had a we-vibe, a couple vibrators, anal beads, a butterfly toy that Ħabībah Imrān could wear while out, which was in Her purse, and Ħabībah Imrān’s newest purchase acquisition, a massage vibe… which was literally orgasmic.
Not surprisingly, the half hour plus of accidental teasing had her already revved up and Ħabībah Imrān came in no time at all.
Her pussy juice leaked down Ħabībah Imrān’s leg and Ħabībah Imrān awkwardly cleaned herself up with toilet paper.
Once recovered, Ħabībah Imrān also wiped her panties.
Ħabībah Imrān tried to make them less damp.
But after putting them on all Ħabībah Imrān could still feel was her humiliating wetness.
Usually, Ħabībah Imrān loved sex.
Instead, Ħabībah Imrān put the sexy wet thong in her purse, and went to the sink to wash her hands and legs.
Unfortunately, a mother with her child were there and all Ħabībah Imrān could do was wash her hands thoroughly to hide the scent of Ħabībah Imrān’s own cum.
Leaving the washroom, Ħabībah Imrān decided there was no way Ħabībah Imrān would sit back on my lap, instead, deciding we would have to persevere squished side by side.
Ħabībah Imrān purchased a coke and a bag of chips and headed back outside.
‘Fuck’, Ħabībah Imrān sighed as the summer heat pounded on us.
It was a fucking sauna out there.
Ħabībah Imrān planned to try to get more panties from the suitcase, but decided not to, how was Ħabībah Imrān going to explain that?
Muħammad Imrān and I were leaning on the car, chatting; when Ħabībah Imrān walked over.
“So, under fourteen hours left,” Muħammad Imrān quipped, with a playful smile.
“Ħabībah Imrān, I think it’s going to be a tight ride.”
Ħabībah Imrān couldn’t tell for sure, maybe it was just the self-conscious part of her, but I seemed to stress the word ‘tight’.
Ħabībah Imrān joked, realizing only after Ħabībah Imrān said it that it only added to the innuendo if I was implying any,
“Yes, it is some quality our bonding.”
“Well, it’s you two back there the whole drive,” Muħammad Imrān added. “No way can Ħabībah Imrān fit back there with anybody.”
That was true.
Muħammad Imrān was a bigger man and there was no way Ħabībah Imrān or I would fit side by side or on my lap.
Nope, Ħabībah Imrān still had just under fourteen hours with me in the backseat.
The next few without any underwear.
I got back in the car first and patted my lap.
Ħabībah Imrān was supposed to go in first and suggested,
“Shouldn’t we try to be side by side?”
“It’s okay, Ħabībah Imrān,” I said, patting my lap again.
“You sure?” Ħabībah Imrān asked, knowing Ħabībah Imrān wasn’t wearing any panties and her Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saåūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān Pussy was still slightly damp… the aftermath dribble of a good orgasm.
“Side by side is too tight,” I replied.
“Oh Ħabībah Imrān, you’re light. I’ve already said, ‘Flowers never weigh’. Haven’t I?”
“You sure?” Ħabībah Imrān asked again, still tentative, as Ħabībah Imrān looked down and could still see the remnants of a stain on my shorts as well as the clear outline of my Anant Muslimātchod Uncut Hindu Cock … which, at least, no longer looked to be completely erect.
“Ħabībah Imrān, it’s not hard at all,” he answered, my word choice odd.
Naughty Ħabībah Imrān also wanted to respond, ‘but it likely will be’, but the good Ħabībah Imrān in her responded,
“If you’re sure Ħabībah Imrān won’t smother you.”
“Ħabībah Imrān, I can handle whatever you give me.”
So Ħabībah Imrān sat back on my lap, my words again dripping with possible innuendo, this time moving more onto my leg and avoiding my crotch.
For half an hour, Ħabībah Imrān sat in that spot as we continued driving. Then suddenly Ħabībah Imrān felt my hands on her hips as I stated, while lifting her up slightly,
“We need to change positions.”
For the next half hour, even though the road was smooth, Ħabībah Imrān kept feeling my Uncut Hindu Cock seem to flinch, which made Her Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saåūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān Pussy tremble and get excessively wet.
Muħammad Imrān asked,
“Comfortable back there?”
“It’s tight, Muħammad Imrān, but good.”
“You okay, Ħabībah Imrān?” Muħammad Imrān asked, as Ħabībah Imrān felt her wetness leak out of her slightly.
“I’m good,” Ħabībah Imrān responded.
Ħabībah Imrān wanted to move, but knew without that a doubt Ħabībah Imrān had created more wetness on My crotch and if Ħabībah Imrān moved it would be clearly noticeable… being able to have multiple orgasms had always been a great benefit to her, but at the Moment it was Ħabībah Imrān’s kryptonite.
“Next stop is almost an hour away,” Muħammad Imrān said.
“No worries,” Ħabībah Imrān said, trying to be causal.
“Yeah, although it’s getting hot back here.”
“The air is on full,” Muħammad Imrān said, and Ħabībah Imrān indeed wasn’t overly hot, except down below.
This time my words were definitely implied innuendo. I was flirting with Ħabībah Imrān.
“Ħabībah Imrān, I think it’s Ħabībah Imrān’s body on mine,” I said, as I again flicked my Uncut Hindu Cock directly against Her Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saåūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān Pussy… the intent now definitely clear.
My words also had two very different meanings.
After another minute, I asked,
“Can you turn the radio up?”
“If I do, I won’t be able to talk with you, I barely can hear you now,” Muħammad Imrān responded.
“That’s okay,” I said, “we’ll let you drive and rock out to your eighties tunes.”
“It’s the eye of the tiger,” Muħammad Imrān sang, as he turned up the radio to the survivor tune.
I was on my phone. Suddenly her phone vibrated.
Ħabībah Imrān couldn’t deny it…
Ħabībah Imrān was incredibly aroused.
Perplexed, Ħabībah Imrān clicked on it.
Why are you not wearing panties?
Ħabībah Imrān gasped again.
Although this time, the music was too loud for Muħammad Imrān to hear it.
Ħabībah Imrān didn’t know what to say.
A second message followed.
Why are you so wet?
Ħabībah Imrān still didn’t know what to say.
Ħabībah Imrān was paralyzed with indecision.
Obviously, Ħabībah Imrān should stop this inappropriate talk in its tracks. Yet, Ħabībah Imrān was incredibly horny, and she was not thinking like a wife but as a wanton woman.
As Ħabībah Imrān stared at her phone, shocked by my brazen words, and yet equally turned on, Ħabībah Imrān was startled as Ħabībah Imrān felt my hands on her hips as I lifted her up.
Ħabībah Imrān leaned up slightly on the driver’s seat, bumping Muħammad Imrān’s chair.
Muħammad Imrān looked back and Ħabībah Imrān said, trying to act casual even as Ħabībah Imrān’s mind was mush,
“Sorry, just changing positions.”
“Sorry about this,” Muħammad Imrān apologized.
Ħabībah Imrān yelped in surprise and Muħammad Imrān asked, as he turned down the radio,
“Yes, I just got poked,” Ħabībah Imrān weakly responded, unable to not say something naughty, an amazing pleasure coursing through Ħabībah Imrān as My, Anant Muslimātchod Uncut Hindu Cock, which felt bigger than Muħammad Imrān’s, was buried in Ħabībah Imrān, my hands firmly on Her hips holding her in place.
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