Escorts in Bangalore

Winter is my favorite Season. I love the way the light starts to fade early, and you know that winter is setting in. 

Cosy jumpers and hot chocolate to warm you up after a crisp walk through autumn leaves. It’s too cold to be out, after all, so being in is the only option. 

Your living room becomes this snug, private little nest, and no one’s going to threaten to drag you out of it with plans for picnics or other nonsense, because they’re all snuggled up inside too.

It usually starts with candles and wine. Little luxuries that remind us this night is one we both want to really revel in.

 Luxuries for luxuriating—you see? I always wear something warm and soft and cosy—like my big white sweater that covers me from neck to just below my black lace panties.

Jon is shirtless because he loves the sensation of his bare chest pressed against the soft wool. 

As for me, I love how my nipples get hard when I wear it, and the way my body aches for him touch them with those strong hands that are always so hot.

My boyfriend and I love to be together at home. We don’t even kiss when we first get there. 

Instead, we hold each other and stare into each other’s eyes. 

Our breaths combine, and soon we’re both thrumming with the need for our lips to meet. 

But we have so much time, and we want to savor every moment, so he cups my face in his hand and turns me away from him. 

Instead of kissing me on the lips, he kisses me on my neck instead. 

He licks me ever so delicately until I can trace those shivery flutters from where he plants them on my skin all the way through my buzzing nerves and right to the very core of me.

He plays with me, too, by sliding his hands under my sweater. 

His caresses feel like a tease, brushing me so softly until they reach my nipples, then moving down to trace the curve of my bottom through my lace panties—which he slides off as though they are weightless.

I sit on his lap, feeling the denim rough against my skin—and his hard-on straining against his jeans.

 It feels good and naughty, like I’m doing something I shouldn’t be.Two sensations enhance each other, creating a feeling that’s more than just the sum of its parts.

The erection is hotter because it’s trapped, confined, ready to spring out. As his hands slide under my sweater to caress my breasts, I find myself wishing that the jeans he’s wearing were not so tight in the crotch. 

When he lifts my top and—finally, tantalisingly—takes one of my nipples into his mouth for a firm suck, We both come at almost exactly the same time, barely able to wait for the next escalation.

The reason I love it so much is that the passion builds slowly and steadily, until I can’t resist him any longer.

 In resisting, I make myself want him even more. We take our time with everything, and that’s why every touch feels so electric. 

When he sucks on one—just one! – of my nipples, It’s not how fast or slow he devours me that makes me melt; it’s the patience he shows in anticipation of my pleasure.

I lay back on the sofa and surrender myself to my body’s trembling, an emotional experience that makes me feel renewed. 

He eats me out with the same casualness he does everything else, but with sudden bursts of shuddering intensity.

In the first place, he begins with fragile circles — lapping tenderly around my most delicate spot. 

I can’t resist the urge to grasp his hand firmly, and let out little cries as his strokes become shifted — long ones, all over my labia, to blend in with the circles and poke me higher towards euphoria. 

I can’t assist myself, I with pushing the sweater up so I can get a portion of that chilly air on my shivering areolas and, indeed, likewise give him a decent view as he looks up from where he’s working.

I don’t have to utilize words to tell him — when I shift position he knows: now is the right time to change everything around. 

He lies back on the couch, falling into the plunge in the pads that are still warm from my own bare body, and I unfasten his flies and let that delightful chicken spring out. 

Is there any euphoria on the planet more noteworthy than perceiving how hard somebody is for you? 

I allow myself one moment to consider, as I slide the sweater off over my head, exactly the amount Don probably throbbed when the blood beat into his erection just to be caught inside the jail of his pants. 

How mitigating it will be for him when I at long last take it in my mouth.

like to make a feast of that absolute first stroke. 

Not licking at the tip or gradually wrapping the entire situation inch by inch with wet lips, however opening my mouth great and wide and getting my head as far down to the base as conceivable before I close it. 

So his dick is all inside before he gets the impression of a clammy, glinting tongue. 

He shivers, and that’s what I revere. 

I feel so strong doing this — holding his pleasure in the centers of my hands, and my mouth, and controlling, prodding, sucking him to an intense crescendo. His cock is so fulfilling. 

The head, so delicate. I follow up that first stroke with some faster, more limited ones — heaps of kissing and sogginess all centered around the group of sensitive spots that sit underneath the edge of the head. 

I get my hands in as well, more spit for lube, and I’m in the zone currently, stroking and sucking increasingly fast as he lets out these exhilarating snorts and groans to ask me on.

I hop on top of him, permitting myself to abound in that exceptionally satisfying the primary stroke of the fuck — sliding down onto his bended, tight prick, and permitting myself to wheeze at the sheer delight of being so extended and full as I take him. 

Truth be told, that ‘permit myself’ is maybe somewhat of a lie — it isn’t so much that I let myself wheeze, it’s that I can’t help myself. 

As I ride him harder, crushing on top of him and getting that remarkable full-up feeling as his dick excites each and every nerve inside my pussy, I understand I’m making such an uproar that if not for the music the neighbors could think about what’s going on. 

This isn’t a screw you can keep quiet for, it’s one where I need to ride the rushes of delight with a similar energy with which I’m riding him. Commending each shiver and rush with groans and whines and murmurs and the very best things. 

I sit up to give him a visual as well as a hear-able show, and he inclines forward to concentrate on my areolas. 

I can see he’s holding defaming his lip and attempting to keep cool-headed and calm, yet unfit to control his hands, which meander to my bum to get fistfuls of crushing tissue.