Muslim women and white boy real story in London

"Welcome to London, Lukas. I hope the flight from Berlin was not too exhausting," Mr. Khan said, shaking my hand with a firm grip.
"It was fine, thank you for having me," I replied, but my eyes had already drifted.
Behind him stood his wife. She wore a deep emerald green shalwar kameez that draped over her curves, but it couldn't hide the sheer volume of her hips. When she turned to lead us toward the stairs, the fabric stretched tight across a massive, rounded ass that swayed with every step.
"I am Zoya," she said, glancing back at me with a shy, fleeting smile. "Your room is at the top. It has the best light for studying."
"I think I am going to like it here very much," I told her, my voice dropping an octave.
"The house is quiet during the day," Mr. Khan added, oblivious. "The children are at school, and I am at the clinic. Zoya manages everything here. If you need anything, she is the one to ask."
"I will be sure to ask her for everything," I whispered.
Over the next week, the house became a game of proximity. I found excuses to be in the kitchen when she was cooking, the scent of turmeric and cardamom clinging to her skin.
"You are very quiet, Lukas," Zoya said one afternoon, leaning over the counter to reach for a spice jar. The movement pushed her backside out, the fabric straining against her cheeks. "Are your studies very difficult?"
"They are," I said, stepping closer until I could smell the floral perfume on her neck. "But I find the distractions in this house far more interesting than my textbooks."
Zoya froze, her breath hitching. "You should not say such things. I am a married woman."
"A beautiful woman," I countered, my hand brushing against the small of her back. "A woman with a body that makes it impossible for me to concentrate. Do you have any idea how you look when you walk away from me?"
"Lukas, stop," she whispered, though she didn't move away. "Someone might hear."
"The kids are at school. Your husband is at the clinic. It is just us, Zoya."
"It is wrong," she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut as I pressed my chest against her back.
"Is it wrong to want something this perfect?" I asked, my hand sliding down to grip one of those heavy, soft cheeks. I squeezed hard, feeling the lushness of her through the silk.
"Oh!" she gasped, her back arching. "You... you are so bold."
"I know what I want. And I think you want to be touched like this."
"I... I have not felt this in years," she confessed, her voice trembling.
I turned her around, pinning her against the counter. I kissed her deeply, my tongue sliding into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her saliva as she moaned into me. Her hands scrambled at my shirt, pulling it open.
"Let me see you," she breathed.
I stripped quickly, letting my cock spring free. It was thick and heavy, throbbing with a need that had been building since the moment I arrived. Zoya's eyes widened, her gaze locked on the length of it.
"My god," she whispered. "You are... you are so big."
"Do you want it, Zoya? Do you want this inside you?"
"Yes," she whimpered. "Please, yes."
I lifted her onto the counter, sweeping the spices aside. I ripped her kameez upward, exposing her wide hips and the creamy skin of her thighs. She wasn't wearing any underwear. Her pussy was already glistening, a thick trail of wetness coating her folds.
"Look at how wet you are for me," I groaned, sliding two fingers into her.
"Ah! Yes! Right there!" she cried out, her head tossing back. "It feels so full... so much better than I remember."
I spat into my palm and lubricated the head of my cock before pressing it against her opening. I pushed slowly, feeling the tight ring of her muscles struggle to accommodate my width.
"You are so tight, Zoya. So fucking tight," I grunted.
"Fill me... please, just fill me up!"
I lunged forward, burying myself to the hilt in one deep, sliding motion. A loud, wet squelch echoed in the quiet kitchen as I bottomed out against her cervix. Zoya let out a strangled scream, her legs locking around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back.
"Oh fuck! You're so deep!" she wailed, her voice cracking.
"I'm going to stretch you out," I whispered, beginning to pull back.
The sound of our bodies colliding became a rhythmic, wet slapping. Shlick, shlick, shlick. Every time I thrust, my balls slapped hard against her perineum, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. I gripped her massive ass, my fingers sinking deep into the flesh, pulling her toward me to ensure every inch of my shaft hit the back of her throat.
"Yes! Harder! Give it to me harder!" she screamed, her modesty forgotten.
I increased the pace, the friction creating a heat that felt like it would incinerate us both. The sound changed to a frantic squelching as her natural lubrication mixed with my pre-cum, creating a frothy foam between our pelvises. I could feel her clit rubbing against the base of my cock with every plunge, sending jolts of electricity through her.
"I'm going to cum! I'm going to cum!" she shrieked, her internal muscles clamping down on me in violent spasms.
I felt the pressure build in my gut. I delivered three more powerful, lunging thrusts, the air being pushed out of her lungs in sharp, rhythmic puffs.
"I'm coming too!" I roared.
I buried myself deep one last time and let go, my seed erupting in hot, thick bursts that flooded her womb. I felt the pulses of my orgasm hitting her deep inside, the volume of the release making her gasp in shock.
We stayed locked together for a long time, our breathing heavy and ragged, the only sound the ticking of the kitchen clock.
"We cannot do this," she whispered, though she was still clinging to me.
"We can," I said, kissing her forehead. "We just have to be careful."
"He will kill us if he finds out."
"He won't find out. As long as you keep calling me down here every afternoon."
Zoya looked at me, a dark, hungry glint in her eyes. "I think I can manage that."
"Good girl," I said, sliding out of her with a final, wet pop, leaving a streak of white cream running down her inner thigh.
She cleaned herself up just as the sound of the front door opening echoed through the hallway.
"Zoya! I am home early!" Mr. Khan shouted.
Zoya looked at me, a secret smile playing on her lips, before smoothing her dress.
"I am in the kitchen, dear!" she called back, her voice perfectly steady.