Pierre-Yves Polomat

  
Vorname: Pierre-Yves
Nachname: Polomat
Land: USA
Status: Single
Über mich

This is the last time. The last time she will sit in this chair, rest the cello between her thighs and play for her instructor.

The instructor watches her tune the cello and start her scales just like she has done every week for the past 9 years. And every week, the same melody and the same outfit: the white blouse, blue button-down sweater, plaid skirt and knee-high socks of her school uniform. He watches her pull her skirt up past the middle of her thighs, watches the perfect alabaster white of her legs surround the chocolate burgundy of the cello, the waist length jet black straight hair fall over her shoulder and brush past the tiny points of her breasts pushing against her shirt. And he watches her eyes close and her mouth open. Breathing in concert with the music, her blade thin face is locked in an expression caught between concentration, creativity and passion. And he knows she is a woman, almost 19 and about to head to Europe.

The student isn't sure how to feel about this, her last lesson. Doesn't know how to communicate the thoughts in her head, the feelings in her loins. She never told him that late at night when her hand roams under the sheets and massages her slowly opening pussy lips, she only thinks of him. It's his dark salt and pepper hair she wants to grab onto as she pulls him in for a kiss, his naked chest she wants rubbing against her nipples, his cock she wants her mouth to spread around as it pushes to the back of her throat. And it's his eyes she wants to look into as her pussy squeezes his thrusting dick until his come releases, flooding her from the inside out. But there is no way to explain that, so she does what she has done for the last few years: remove her panties before the lesson, breathe deep to catch his musky scent and spread her skirt to let the the cold air, and deep vibrations of the cello tickle her exposed clit to electric attention.

And there is much he never told her. Never admitted it is her he thinks about at home when he grabs his swollen member and begins to stroke. It's her tiny apple ass he wants to caress as his hand pushes down her back and inside her panties, it's her thin, musician's fingers that he wants to feel around his cock. And it's her long dancer's legs he wants wrapped around his back as he drives deep inside her. And he knows there no time left to explain it all, to make his case.

She plays, lost in the music, and he roams around the room until he pauses directly behind her, right between her shoulder blades. He slowly moves forward until his thighs hit the back of her chair and then reaches over to gently grab her wrists. He is pretending to reposition her hands, correct her posture. But he knows there is no correction to be made, nothing she needs to learn.

He waits for her to offer a protest: a sarcastic quip or a tensing of her muscles letting him know he has pushed too far. But there is nothing. Only her hands moving over the cello and a strangely peaceful look on her face. He doesn't let go, keeps holding on, his thumbs stroking her forearms to the tempo of the music. He feels her pulse in the palm of his hands and looks down to realize her wrists aren't much thicker than the penis that's quickly swelling with anticipation in his jeans.

At first, his light grip confuses her, nervous her technique has regressed right before she heads to her residency. But she quickly realizes his grasp is not an instruction but an invitation. He doesn't correct but caresses, holding her wrists in a firmly gentle grasp confirms all her late-night desires and her head begins to spin. It's him advancing on her, the only person in her life that was never cruel but never weak. Always available but never intruding.

This lone beacon of masculinity in her turbulent world is now holding her hands in a tentative expression of affection. The realization makes her senses explode; her chest tightens and her stomach flutters. Her nipples swell and a warm current runs through her cervix at the promise of what could come next.

And as their hands dip low to the music, she feels the fly of his jeans brush against her hair, senses the heat behind the zipper. When the music allows, she sheepishly tosses her head back, scraping her neck against the fly of his jeans and is shocked by the hardness already pushing back behind the denim. She snaps forward, afraid she pushed too far, discovered something he considers forbidden. But his hands don't leave her wrists and she can't help but try again, tapping her head against the growing mass behind her. And every poke and retreat increases her desire, drawing her toward the magnetic force of his crotch. Finally, she leans back and stays there, pressing her flesh into his rock-hard bulge. She slides back and forth along the shaft, the end disappearing somewhere by his pockets, and can feel him slowly rocking his hips, pushing his hardness into the nape of her neck.

He can't believe how stiff his cock is inside his jeans. He's not used to this and feels slight jabs of pain as his prick contorts itself looking for space in the confines of his pants. But he doesn't stop. Keeps rocking and looking down at her face, her eyes still closed, a red blush entering her cheeks. Her head seems so small against his groin. Everything about her seems smaller now - porcelain and fragile.

It's the girl that shared too much. Talked of a father she didn't know, a grandmother forced to raise her and bon vivant artist of a mother who would drop in unannounced, always with a different man. He remembers when she confided the only motherly act she ever received was getting birth control pills at 13, the mother wrongly thinking her daughter would be just like her. She was run through the mill but never broken. This perfect example of feminine strength is now caressing his crotch with her long hair. And it makes the tingling in his balls send shivers up his spine.

To her, his penis seems so much more powerful, serious even, then the few schoolmate peckers she has felt and kissed in her seven minutes of heaven sessions at school parties. This one is consuming her, obliterating every other thought in her body. She drops the bow and lets the cello slide to the floor. One hand reaches back and grabs his ass to push him even closer while the other gropes by his front pocket, trying to find the end of his manhood.

She can't believe the strength he is exuding. She always knew it was there, even when he confided his deepest disappointments. His multiple near misses to make a living creating, not teaching, music. His nagging fear that if he left any legacy at all, it would be of potential not met. She never believed it. Always knew he was the greatest man in her life but now the relentless energy and pressure of his manliness against her skin eclipses her previous thoughts, making her dizzy with desire.

dirty wonk

thefreesexcams

She suddenly feels his hands grasp her head, stroking her face and guiding her to move with his swaying hips. She follows and feels a finger caress her lips. She sucks in the finger, curls her tongue around his knuckles. His salty, stinging, taste sends her pussy juices streaking down her ass, soaking into her skirt.

He moves the finger around her mouth, the tightness of her lips creating a suction that makes him moan. He watches her hand work its way to the base of his shaft, cup his balls through his jeans and then begin to fumble with his zipper. He knows she will never work the zipper free, so in a spasm of lustful abandon, he undoes his belt and whips his pants and boxers to the floor, freeing his cock to spring out and bounce against her cheek. For a second, he stares at it in amazement. He has never seen it like this, so hard and throbbing. It twitches against her ear, each ridge and vein swollen past anything he can remember, the shaft even thickening past the width of its purple head. Both of her hands come up to grab for it, more pawing than stroking and he realizes how much of this is new to her.

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Vorname: Pierre-Yves
Nachname: Polomat
Land: USA
Status: Single
Über mich

This is the last time. The last time she will sit in this chair, rest the cello between her thighs and play for her instructor.

The instructor watches her tune the cello and start her scales just like she has done every week for the past 9 years. And every week, the same melody and the same outfit: the white blouse, blue button-down sweater, plaid skirt and knee-high socks of her school uniform. He watches her pull her skirt up past the middle of her thighs, watches the perfect alabaster white of her legs surround the chocolate burgundy of the cello, the waist length jet black straight hair fall over her shoulder and brush past the tiny points of her breasts pushing against her shirt. And he watches her eyes close and her mouth open. Breathing in concert with the music, her blade thin face is locked in an expression caught between concentration, creativity and passion. And he knows she is a woman, almost 19 and about to head to Europe.

The student isn't sure how to feel about this, her last lesson. Doesn't know how to communicate the thoughts in her head, the feelings in her loins. She never told him that late at night when her hand roams under the sheets and massages her slowly opening pussy lips, she only thinks of him. It's his dark salt and pepper hair she wants to grab onto as she pulls him in for a kiss, his naked chest she wants rubbing against her nipples, his cock she wants her mouth to spread around as it pushes to the back of her throat. And it's his eyes she wants to look into as her pussy squeezes his thrusting dick until his come releases, flooding her from the inside out. But there is no way to explain that, so she does what she has done for the last few years: remove her panties before the lesson, breathe deep to catch his musky scent and spread her skirt to let the the cold air, and deep vibrations of the cello tickle her exposed clit to electric attention.

And there is much he never told her. Never admitted it is her he thinks about at home when he grabs his swollen member and begins to stroke. It's her tiny apple ass he wants to caress as his hand pushes down her back and inside her panties, it's her thin, musician's fingers that he wants to feel around his cock. And it's her long dancer's legs he wants wrapped around his back as he drives deep inside her. And he knows there no time left to explain it all, to make his case.

She plays, lost in the music, and he roams around the room until he pauses directly behind her, right between her shoulder blades. He slowly moves forward until his thighs hit the back of her chair and then reaches over to gently grab her wrists. He is pretending to reposition her hands, correct her posture. But he knows there is no correction to be made, nothing she needs to learn.

He waits for her to offer a protest: a sarcastic quip or a tensing of her muscles letting him know he has pushed too far. But there is nothing. Only her hands moving over the cello and a strangely peaceful look on her face. He doesn't let go, keeps holding on, his thumbs stroking her forearms to the tempo of the music. He feels her pulse in the palm of his hands and looks down to realize her wrists aren't much thicker than the penis that's quickly swelling with anticipation in his jeans.

At first, his light grip confuses her, nervous her technique has regressed right before she heads to her residency. But she quickly realizes his grasp is not an instruction but an invitation. He doesn't correct but caresses, holding her wrists in a firmly gentle grasp confirms all her late-night desires and her head begins to spin. It's him advancing on her, the only person in her life that was never cruel but never weak. Always available but never intruding.

This lone beacon of masculinity in her turbulent world is now holding her hands in a tentative expression of affection. The realization makes her senses explode; her chest tightens and her stomach flutters. Her nipples swell and a warm current runs through her cervix at the promise of what could come next.

And as their hands dip low to the music, she feels the fly of his jeans brush against her hair, senses the heat behind the zipper. When the music allows, she sheepishly tosses her head back, scraping her neck against the fly of his jeans and is shocked by the hardness already pushing back behind the denim. She snaps forward, afraid she pushed too far, discovered something he considers forbidden. But his hands don't leave her wrists and she can't help but try again, tapping her head against the growing mass behind her. And every poke and retreat increases her desire, drawing her toward the magnetic force of his crotch. Finally, she leans back and stays there, pressing her flesh into his rock-hard bulge. She slides back and forth along the shaft, the end disappearing somewhere by his pockets, and can feel him slowly rocking his hips, pushing his hardness into the nape of her neck.

He can't believe how stiff his cock is inside his jeans. He's not used to this and feels slight jabs of pain as his prick contorts itself looking for space in the confines of his pants. But he doesn't stop. Keeps rocking and looking down at her face, her eyes still closed, a red blush entering her cheeks. Her head seems so small against his groin. Everything about her seems smaller now - porcelain and fragile.

It's the girl that shared too much. Talked of a father she didn't know, a grandmother forced to raise her and bon vivant artist of a mother who would drop in unannounced, always with a different man. He remembers when she confided the only motherly act she ever received was getting birth control pills at 13, the mother wrongly thinking her daughter would be just like her. She was run through the mill but never broken. This perfect example of feminine strength is now caressing his crotch with her long hair. And it makes the tingling in his balls send shivers up his spine.

To her, his penis seems so much more powerful, serious even, then the few schoolmate peckers she has felt and kissed in her seven minutes of heaven sessions at school parties. This one is consuming her, obliterating every other thought in her body. She drops the bow and lets the cello slide to the floor. One hand reaches back and grabs his ass to push him even closer while the other gropes by his front pocket, trying to find the end of his manhood.

She can't believe the strength he is exuding. She always knew it was there, even when he confided his deepest disappointments. His multiple near misses to make a living creating, not teaching, music. His nagging fear that if he left any legacy at all, it would be of potential not met. She never believed it. Always knew he was the greatest man in her life but now the relentless energy and pressure of his manliness against her skin eclipses her previous thoughts, making her dizzy with desire.

dirty wonk

thefreesexcams

She suddenly feels his hands grasp her head, stroking her face and guiding her to move with his swaying hips. She follows and feels a finger caress her lips. She sucks in the finger, curls her tongue around his knuckles. His salty, stinging, taste sends her pussy juices streaking down her ass, soaking into her skirt.

He moves the finger around her mouth, the tightness of her lips creating a suction that makes him moan. He watches her hand work its way to the base of his shaft, cup his balls through his jeans and then begin to fumble with his zipper. He knows she will never work the zipper free, so in a spasm of lustful abandon, he undoes his belt and whips his pants and boxers to the floor, freeing his cock to spring out and bounce against her cheek. For a second, he stares at it in amazement. He has never seen it like this, so hard and throbbing. It twitches against her ear, each ridge and vein swollen past anything he can remember, the shaft even thickening past the width of its purple head. Both of her hands come up to grab for it, more pawing than stroking and he realizes how much of this is new to her.

https://dirtywonk.com/category/indian-porn-tube-sites/

Vorname: Pierre-Yves

Nachname: Polomat

Land: USA

Status: Single

Homepagehttps://dirtywonk.com/

Über mich

This is the last time. The last time she will sit in this chair, rest the cello between her thighs and play for her instructor.

The instructor watches her tune the cello and start her scales just like she has done every week for the past 9 years. And every week, the same melody and the same outfit: the white blouse, blue button-down sweater, plaid skirt and knee-high socks of her school uniform. He watches her pull her skirt up past the middle of her thighs, watches the perfect alabaster white of her legs surround the chocolate burgundy of the cello, the waist length jet black straight hair fall over her shoulder and brush past the tiny points of her breasts pushing against her shirt. And he watches her eyes close and her mouth open. Breathing in concert with the music, her blade thin face is locked in an expression caught between concentration, creativity and passion. And he knows she is a woman, almost 19 and about to head to Europe.

The student isn't sure how to feel about this, her last lesson. Doesn't know how to communicate the thoughts in her head, the feelings in her loins. She never told him that late at night when her hand roams under the sheets and massages her slowly opening pussy lips, she only thinks of him. It's his dark salt and pepper hair she wants to grab onto as she pulls him in for a kiss, his naked chest she wants rubbing against her nipples, his cock she wants her mouth to spread around as it pushes to the back of her throat. And it's his eyes she wants to look into as her pussy squeezes his thrusting dick until his come releases, flooding her from the inside out. But there is no way to explain that, so she does what she has done for the last few years: remove her panties before the lesson, breathe deep to catch his musky scent and spread her skirt to let the the cold air, and deep vibrations of the cello tickle her exposed clit to electric attention.

And there is much he never told her. Never admitted it is her he thinks about at home when he grabs his swollen member and begins to stroke. It's her tiny apple ass he wants to caress as his hand pushes down her back and inside her panties, it's her thin, musician's fingers that he wants to feel around his cock. And it's her long dancer's legs he wants wrapped around his back as he drives deep inside her. And he knows there no time left to explain it all, to make his case.

She plays, lost in the music, and he roams around the room until he pauses directly behind her, right between her shoulder blades. He slowly moves forward until his thighs hit the back of her chair and then reaches over to gently grab her wrists. He is pretending to reposition her hands, correct her posture. But he knows there is no correction to be made, nothing she needs to learn.

He waits for her to offer a protest: a sarcastic quip or a tensing of her muscles letting him know he has pushed too far. But there is nothing. Only her hands moving over the cello and a strangely peaceful look on her face. He doesn't let go, keeps holding on, his thumbs stroking her forearms to the tempo of the music. He feels her pulse in the palm of his hands and looks down to realize her wrists aren't much thicker than the penis that's quickly swelling with anticipation in his jeans.

At first, his light grip confuses her, nervous her technique has regressed right before she heads to her residency. But she quickly realizes his grasp is not an instruction but an invitation. He doesn't correct but caresses, holding her wrists in a firmly gentle grasp confirms all her late-night desires and her head begins to spin. It's him advancing on her, the only person in her life that was never cruel but never weak. Always available but never intruding.

This lone beacon of masculinity in her turbulent world is now holding her hands in a tentative expression of affection. The realization makes her senses explode; her chest tightens and her stomach flutters. Her nipples swell and a warm current runs through her cervix at the promise of what could come next.

And as their hands dip low to the music, she feels the fly of his jeans brush against her hair, senses the heat behind the zipper. When the music allows, she sheepishly tosses her head back, scraping her neck against the fly of his jeans and is shocked by the hardness already pushing back behind the denim. She snaps forward, afraid she pushed too far, discovered something he considers forbidden. But his hands don't leave her wrists and she can't help but try again, tapping her head against the growing mass behind her. And every poke and retreat increases her desire, drawing her toward the magnetic force of his crotch. Finally, she leans back and stays there, pressing her flesh into his rock-hard bulge. She slides back and forth along the shaft, the end disappearing somewhere by his pockets, and can feel him slowly rocking his hips, pushing his hardness into the nape of her neck.

He can't believe how stiff his cock is inside his jeans. He's not used to this and feels slight jabs of pain as his prick contorts itself looking for space in the confines of his pants. But he doesn't stop. Keeps rocking and looking down at her face, her eyes still closed, a red blush entering her cheeks. Her head seems so small against his groin. Everything about her seems smaller now - porcelain and fragile.

It's the girl that shared too much. Talked of a father she didn't know, a grandmother forced to raise her and bon vivant artist of a mother who would drop in unannounced, always with a different man. He remembers when she confided the only motherly act she ever received was getting birth control pills at 13, the mother wrongly thinking her daughter would be just like her. She was run through the mill but never broken. This perfect example of feminine strength is now caressing his crotch with her long hair. And it makes the tingling in his balls send shivers up his spine.

To her, his penis seems so much more powerful, serious even, then the few schoolmate peckers she has felt and kissed in her seven minutes of heaven sessions at school parties. This one is consuming her, obliterating every other thought in her body. She drops the bow and lets the cello slide to the floor. One hand reaches back and grabs his ass to push him even closer while the other gropes by his front pocket, trying to find the end of his manhood.

She can't believe the strength he is exuding. She always knew it was there, even when he confided his deepest disappointments. His multiple near misses to make a living creating, not teaching, music. His nagging fear that if he left any legacy at all, it would be of potential not met. She never believed it. Always knew he was the greatest man in her life but now the relentless energy and pressure of his manliness against her skin eclipses her previous thoughts, making her dizzy with desire.

dirty wonk

thefreesexcams

She suddenly feels his hands grasp her head, stroking her face and guiding her to move with his swaying hips. She follows and feels a finger caress her lips. She sucks in the finger, curls her tongue around his knuckles. His salty, stinging, taste sends her pussy juices streaking down her ass, soaking into her skirt.

He moves the finger around her mouth, the tightness of her lips creating a suction that makes him moan. He watches her hand work its way to the base of his shaft, cup his balls through his jeans and then begin to fumble with his zipper. He knows she will never work the zipper free, so in a spasm of lustful abandon, he undoes his belt and whips his pants and boxers to the floor, freeing his cock to spring out and bounce against her cheek. For a second, he stares at it in amazement. He has never seen it like this, so hard and throbbing. It twitches against her ear, each ridge and vein swollen past anything he can remember, the shaft even thickening past the width of its purple head. Both of her hands come up to grab for it, more pawing than stroking and he realizes how much of this is new to her.

https://dirtywonk.com/category/indian-porn-tube-sites/

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