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Masturbating Pakistani guy gets into trouble.

"What do you think?," she asked. Her voice came through the plush mohair slightly muffled, and I wouldn't have known where the sound had come from if I hadn't seen the chin of the balaclava move slightly.

It took me a long time to think of an answer and when I spoke I could feel my throat tighten as the words came out.

"Nice colour," I managed to say.

"It is a beautiful pink, isn't it? I must look like an enormous ball of cotton candy." She walked over to the couch and sat down beside me. "I feel just as yummy as cotton candy, too."

"I ... what? ... ." I couldn't find the words to say to her.

"Don't worry, Chris. You don't have to say anything. You don't even have to do anything." She had turned sideways on the couch to face me, and as she spoke I could see the mohair part around her mouth and then close again like fluffy eyelids, the long wool swishing easily around her breath. She put her left hand on mine, and her right arm slid over my shoulders, the silky, soft fibres brushing against the back of my neck as she did.

"When I get an order for something as lovely as your catsuit from a woman, it usually means that the husband is too shy to email me himself." Michelle stroked my neck and right ear as she talked. "And then to have you come to my house in person to pick it up ... . I could see in your eyes as soon as I opened the door that you were ready to explode with embarrassment." Her left hand had inched over to my thigh and I could feel her fingers squeeze my leg through the puffy pink mitten.

"Do you know how much of a turn-on that is? As a woman, to see you quivering with excitement and bashfulness at the same time, well I just get a sense of power like you couldn't imagine."

I shifted slightly on the couch and immediately her grip on me tightened.

"Where are you going?," she asked as she slipped the sheath of mohair that was her left hand under my belt. "You don't really want to go anywhere, do you?" The hairy mitten slid back and forth, casually drifting down to the waistband of my boxers. She was looking into my eyes the entire time her hand searched for what wanted to be found.

I could feel the fuzzy guard hairs of her mitten along the left side of my penis long before I finally felt the pressure of her fingers slide across my taut skin. Even though the fibres that surrounded her hand had been stuffed down my pants they felt incredibly thick and plush and loose as she lazily dragged the mohair back and forth over my cock.

"I ... I ... can't," I stammered as the chubby wool repeatedly hit its mark.

The intensity in her eyes didn't change.

"Undo your pants," she said in a tone that carried with it the promise of incomparable fulfillment.

"But ... ."

The mitten wrapped itself around my penis like a furry boa constrictor, engulfing the head of my cock completely, massaging me with a measured and delicious single-mindedness. Her fingers guided the sumptuous pink hairs up and down my shaft with such technique that it felt like the fibres were in constant motion, like the goat's wool was a listless tornado of ecstasy swirling around my foreskin.

Michelle moved closer to me on the couch, bending her left leg and laying it on my thighs, and leaning to my ear. The balaclava was astoundingly fluffy and felt like a dream against the bare skin of my neck. I was so lost in the sensation of her breath and the mohair swaying against me that I didn't notice that she was whispering in my ear.

"Undo your pants," the mohair murmured. "Undo ... your ... pants ... ."

Whatever reasons for stopping Michelle my mind was trying to put forth, my hands had no intention of obeying. Without being asked again I lifted my hips and slid my pants and boxers to the floor. Her hand drifted from its position around my penis and crept under my balls.

I cried out with delight as the mound of fluf

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