I was wearing flip flops and a pair of old baggy gym shorts and no shirt. I told Lajja to make herself useful and to spot me while I bench pressed a f...w. I didn’t plan to lift a lot of weight. I mainly just wanted to get a little pumped up. Lajja stepped up to the bar just above my head and bent over slightly to help me lift the bar. As she bent over I couldn’t help but to look straight up her shirt. All I could focus on was her white lace bra. I wanted to reach up and tear it off her body. It. “Do you want to touch me now?” She asked. “Y-yes…” I answered. She lifted her arms, and put them on my shoulders, “Go ahead.” she told me. I slowly wrapped my arms around her and started rubbing her hips, I quickly made my way down to her ass. I rubbed and stroked her ass, squeezing it in my hands. After a few seconds she started to kiss me, press her tongue into my mouth, and pulling me closer to her with her hands. As our bodies pressed together I could feel my hard-on press into her. She was an outrageous exhibitionist and loved dressing as the slut she was. One of her lovers had bought her a tiny pleated skirt that was much too small to conceal her round and available butt. I could tell she approved when I laid the skirt out. I selected a lycra-spandex band to cover about half her big D-cup "man-magnet" tits. A pair of clear plastic stiletto heels and white, lace top thigh-high stockings completed her ensemble.“No undies?” she asked with a grin.“I wouldn't want anyone to. " What do you mean?"He told her the story of Canada, the real story. Not the dates and acts of dead white men, but the story of migration and upheaval. It was a tale that ran from orphan French girls desperate for a husband in the seventeenth century to Scots fleeing massacres in the eighteenth; from Irish dying of famine to Italians fleeing overpopulation to Sri Lankans running away from war and poverty. For centuries, the long line of defeated peoples had trekked across the oceans to find a.