He sat at the table.
Naro sat on his lap.
Her thick, heavy body settled onto his thighs, her bare ass pressing against his legs, the apron hanging between them, her heavy tits overflowing at his eye level. She was warm and soft and the weight of her was the comfortable, grounding pressure of a woman who had found her place.
Dara sat on his other side.
She had cleaned her mouth — the cum and saliva wiped away, her lips still swollen but presentable. She kissed his chest, her lips finding the fabric of his shirt, her body pressed against his arm.
Viktor's free hand found Naro's tit.
His fingers gripped the heavy, soft, warm flesh, letting the overflow of it spill between his fingers. The dark nipple was stiff against his palm, the areola wide and puckered. He squeezed, pulled, mauled — the idle, absent, proprietary handling of a man who was eating breakfast and needed something to do with his hands.
He looked at Naro.
He sucked her lips.
