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Dina Evans ran her slender fingers through her long blonde hair. Unnerving. That was what it was. She thought of the word, closing her eyes and letting that awful burning itch fade somewhat between her legs. It was so hard trying to keep her mind off her pulsing cunt.
She leaned against the rear of the wide sofa, licking her lips and staring at the yawning fireplace in front of her. Three years. It had been three long years since a man had touched her. Touched? The word made her smile. Fucked! That was what she really wanted to think. Fucked. Cock. Prickmeat squeezing up, into her pussy and driving her up the wall as Matt used to do. But her husband was dead. And since then, Dina had tried to make a new life without men. Now she realized just how foolish she had been. In the past six months the woman had become more and more horny. Dina smiled again. She found herself thinking constantly about fucking, about men, about the touch of a man’s hands on her shoulders, her tits, her cunt.
“Ohhhhh. . .” That burning itch! It was like a sharp electric current burning up her thighs, making her pussylips swell open, then making her cut stand up on end and pulse like a festering wound! Her knees were knocking together while the hot dew of pussy juice began clotting her cunt hairs.
Men. She would have given anything to be fucking with men. But there was always the fear she had about gossip – the lonely widow going out on the town for some strange cock. How the neighbors would gossip if they were to see her coming home with a man.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.