queen mary 2 webcam I take a short pause, even move my hand higher to my chest, but lightly touching the nipple with my fingers, I direct my hand straight down so as not to torment you with waiting.
It was an abandoned gas station on a small country road.
Tall pines growing on the left side of the road hid the city billowing in the depths of the valley.
The November fog enveloped the crowns of trees, rare telegraph poles on the side of the road, a broken cashier’s kiosk, and one single fuel dispenser.

Next to her, on an empty coal box, a young man of about seventeen was on duty.
Dressed in a white sport jacket and tight blue jeans, he seemed like a lost schoolboy who sat down to rest.
In fact, he worked here.
And yet – I waited.
His gloomy dark eyes, hidden by a palisade of thick eyelashes, stood out brightly against the background of a pale narrow face, and unruly black hair childishly knocked out under the edge of a white knitted hat.

He was rather tall and thin, slightly stooping, but in his movements there was always some kind of broken grace, which made rare clients to keep their eyes on him, as if asking, “What is he doing here?” And later, when the car creaked with brakes , left the station, its owner did not leave a strange feeling of dejection. amateur cam orgasm
The youth was called Timur.
He lived in a village nestled at the foot of the Great Mountains.
Every morning, his mother would wake him with a light blow of the palm of his hand on his cheek.
He obediently rose, rinsed his sleepy face over the sink, mechanically brushed his teeth, and, without breakfast, left the house on a dank autumn morning.
He did not cross the mother, almost did not talk to her.
But he loved this gloomy, crushed by day-work, a woman who forgot to feed him before work and went to bed long before his arrival.

He did not remember his father.
He knew only that he had broken off the cliff, returning from the high pastures on horseback.
After graduating from school, he stayed with her to lead a miserable existence, keeping silent about his passionate desire to learn from the artist.
Having buried the cherished dream, Timur became quite unsociable, a bit rude and wildly in communication with outsiders.
His only interlocutor throughout the year of work at the gas station was a half-crazy cashier who drank from dawn to dusk, and the owner, who sometimes looked at the ridiculous proceeds.
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