hsr kafka

She heard her dad rummage around the kitchen, cutlery clanked together, and the microwave hummed for a minute or so before he collapsed onto the couch with the bowl of leftover lasagne steaming in his hands. Like muscle memory, he quickly switched on the TV and started wolfing down the food like a starving man. Only after demolishing half the bowl of pasta, barely paying attention to the random game show playing softly in the background did he turn to his daughter and notice the look on her face.

Their movements were rapid and well-practiced, displaying years of training to hone their martial arts. They did their best to avoid touching each other’s hands, but contact was inevitable, each having to negate the other’s attack. Every time their hands met, jets of steam and smoke would hiss from the contact, with Falco’s water coming to a boil, and Viktor’s flesh threatening to crack from the quenching.

“Oh, good boy, Brucie!” I moaned as he started to cum, filling me up with that lovely doggie heat. “Cum for me, Brucie! Fill my pussy with that hot doggie cum! Good boy, Brucie! Good boy! You're cumming in me so good!” My words were more for Mom, than they were for Bruce, though I was sure he enjoyed the praise. I just wanted to make sure she knew exactly what he was doing inside me. He soon stopped shooting, holding still and panting for a moment, before he twisted around and tried to pull away.