Beauty scandinavian

Saw a vid of a young short haired brunette with a british accent blowing two older guys in a public bathroom.

It was titled something like "scandinavian beauty" but I I can't find it. Anyone know what I'm talking about?

Pic not related but she looked very similar.

Ok, I'm looking for a video which was on here a looong time ago.

It was a scene from a supposedly scandinavian movie, definitely a mainstream production. A young blonde girl described to a police officer (?) how she was raped by her dad, uncle and his friends (according to the subtitles, don't know if they were real or bogus). She was acting all seductively and stuff, almost if she was trying to seduce the officer.

Does anybody know which scene I'm talking about or which movie it was from?

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I confess that I cast a spell to win the lottery but found a treasure instead…
 It was not but before yesterday. The lottery jackpot was outrageously high. I had attempted earlier with my girlfriend to produce enough loosh to manifest some winning numbers. We yielded no positive results for lottery but I enjoyed our endeavors. 
 I knew if we were to stand a chance of creating any real Sex Magik, we would need more willing bodies. People that entertained a certain type of magical thinking. Likely of the Cluste-B variety..
 I created a new profile on a popular alternative hook-up app. The profile pics were nothing particularly spectacular, but I thought they communicated a certain air of a couple that were secure with themselves. The bio though, was a simple short blurb advertising my intent. I didn’t fuck around with straight couples or bullshit bicurious single males. I wanted cock and pussy. I was going to have a fucking full swap or an orgy.
 The bio detailed my plan. All participants agree upon a shared set of lottery numbers. We then set upon each other with carnal lust and the appropriate Will and invoke our manifestation. “Should we fail to produce the lottery numbers”, I penned, “we would still win in the end”.
 The last part was an extremely dry joke but it was brought up later. 
 I actually received quite a few responses but most were single men. Eventually I received a message from a person I will call Jack. Jack had wife named Jill. Jack started sending me pictures faster than I could send mine back. I was afraid I wasn’t sending enough of my gf and too many of my cocklet and I. Jack didn’t mind though. Jack thought that was just fine.
 We set up a place for the four of us to meet. I always vet people out before I stick my dick into them or their’s into me. I have a sensitive barometer for people I fucking hate and so I like to sniff new prospects out before I take them home or to a hotel.
 I had cleared the entire thing with my girlfriend before I ever ran the add on the bio but given the small community we live in, and the troubles we have had before in finding swinging bi couples, she was very surprised at how fast I had arranged such a meeting. It made her nervous for the entire day.
 My gf and I arrived at the agreed meeting place before Jack and Jill. It wasn’t quite six in the evening but it was already dark. The other couple were more than fashionable late. My gf was practically frantic from the anxiety she felt. She usually feels some anxiety on the first meeting when we swing but this was extraordinary. It highly uncharacteristic of her.
 When they arrived I suggested we all just pile into my truck for the warmth. Jack and Jill were agreeable to that and we all climbed inside the cab. Jack liked my truck and tried to engage me a little on the topic of diesel engines and vehicle models like mine. I fained little knowledge. I was more interested in fucking his hole. I mean, his wife was okay, but I liked this man from the moment I smelled him. But I would soon cum to see how very much, Jack was absolutely insane.
 At first, there was some back and forth between the four of us but it would not be long before Jack would rise to dominate the conversation totally and I was in awe at the spectacle of him. He was a juggernaut that could not be stopped. Holy shit. He was a bit shorter than me and had a muscular build. Probably procured through hard work rather than lifting weights. He wore a fleece cap but I expected a cowboy hat. He a chiseled jaw with a cleft chin. He was very handsome.
 Jill was closer to our age. She was probably your typical bpd nympho. A body of about  average but very large breasts. Scandinavian with Irish maybe? Doesn’t really matter, she had large breasts. Very fuckable in my book. Her fantasies were very dark I think. Definitely lots of psychological damage. Large breasts though. Jack would tweak on her nipples as I sometimes managed to chime in. It was very distracting in the most delicious of ways. Did I mention that her breasts were rather large? She wanted dicks rubbing together inside her. Actually I wanted that, but I knew she would have enjoyed it.
 Jack wasn’t a total dick though. He had method to his maddness. As he attempted to dazzle my gf and I with his strange stories and exploits of himself he left small oppenings. He found out quite a bit more than I tried to let on. He was much more cleaver than one might initially assume by his antics.
 Jack began to regail us with stories of killing, incest, rape, sex torture, squirting, marijuana omnitopical, drugs, his construction career, his pro-rodeo career , his porn career,he was a veteran,  how he hated his mom (I guess?), more incest,his ties to mafia, the finer points of leather stitching and yet more incest.
 Also, he only bottemed unless, “the dude was a chick”. My girlfriend looked right at me as he said that. I knew what she was thinking. I was thinking the same thing. 
 Actually, I was thinking about something totally different than her. I had been watching far too many youtube videos about people psychological problems. I had found out what type of crazy people with traits like myself find appealing. Jack was prime specimen of what is supposed to get my juices flowing. I think that youtube is right. 
 With every story, my gf became more and more apprehensive. They mentioned god 11 times. She counted. Every other story was a burning red flag. “These people are fucking kray kray!”, she said to me without speaking. Sure, the story about the squirting sex slave and tarp over the matress seemed funny at fist. But they sorta lost my gf’s interest when the said they had to beat the shit out of her and take her to a mental hospital. Because they cared. Fucking A. The story of the justified homicide did not help. 
 I knew there was no way this was going past the initial meeting between us. It was a shame. I was not sure if anything this person said was true. Pathological lying is hallmark of people with narcissistic traits. But Jack was broken in way that seemed very familiar to me. It could very well be that every story he told was crafted based on his perception of what he thought I might find interesting. It could also be that most if not all of what he said is a close approximation of reality. Chaos fills the lives of the people with traumas. Jack lived in another world at any rate.  
 We finally parted ways after two hours of Jack’s fantastic stories. Neither my girlfriend or I thought it wise to persue them but I harbor deep regrets. Jack being either human typhoon with bpd or a psychotic narcissist, makes no difference to me. The damage is the same. The sex is probably the best I will never know. I don’t even know why it would be so great. But I think it would. People say that it is. Who am I to gainsay them?
 I wanted to win a billion a dollars but instead I found a person that beyond any treasure that could compare. A person so beautifuly tortured that only I could see the true worth of. A person that would not bore me. A person that would probably murder me. A person whose emotional dis-regulation riviled my own I think. Probably eclipsing it. I am sure every day with Jack would be a whirlwind of passion and near death experiences. 
 I confess this Jack, should you ever read this and recognize me, I would have rocked your world like no fucking other. I would have made you cum with every hole I have. I would have fucked every hole of yours. I would have played every crazy mind game you set up for me. I would have made every pore of yours drip sweet and I would have drained your fucking balls. I would have fucked your body, destroyed your mind and raped your sole. You would have fragmented into a dozen or more pieces inside your mind and I would have fucked every one of them. You could have beaten me until my body was bruised and my will was broken. I could have broken you. It would have been fun. I would have saved you from god. You could have joined me with the devil. We could have found refuge in each other’s holes.
 Fuckit, I still have your number…
 

Beauty scandinavian

In mid-May, I took a road trip to SW Minnesota to visit my long-time FWB. We've spent long weekends together in the past, going back to the fall of 2013, but this was the first time I'd be staying at her place -- a double-wide trailer outside a small Minnesota town of about 15,000. It was our first meeting since October 2021. In the interim her dog had died, she'd dumped a "boy toy" 30 years her junior, suffered a hysterectomy, and was taking medication to help her cope with her agoraphobia (fear of public places). In past years, we'd always met at a hotel or Airbnb in the Twin Cities, about a two-hour drive from her place, so this would be quite a departure (venue-wise) from our standard weekend fuck fest.

She's exactly 20 years younger than I am (minus four days!), a natural redhead (my Scandinavian princess!), extremely bi-sexual (her words), and clearly the hottest woman I've been with sexually. I'm constantly amazed at her interest in me, since I'm a lot older, not particularly good-looking, about 25 pounds overweight, and definitely NOT hung. But every time we're together, she's really happy to spend time with me. On more than one occasion she's said, "I feel smarter when I'm with you." I guess that's a good thing.

I got to town on Sunday morning and came by her place at 10:00. T was dressed in a t-shirt and yoga pants, with bare feet. She's a night-owl, whereas I'm definitely a morning person. In fact, one of the first things we talked about when I got to her place -- just outside town in a fairly rural area -- was our circadian incompatibility. As I was making buttermilk pancakes for us (from scratch!), I said, "You know, we'd never be compatible enough to live together, since you're up 'til all hours and I'm in bed by 10:00." It was a nonsense issue, anyway, since she'd never move to Denver (her daughter and grandson are 10 minutes away), and there's no way I'd willingly move to where she lives. Oh -- and another complication involves the fact that I'm married (although she thinks my wife is actually my lesbian roommate, and thankfully they've never met).

Interestingly, she countered my "couldn't live together" statement with a surprising suggestion. "Well," she said, coming up behind me and pressing her braless breasts against my back as I was mixing pancake batter. "We could always compromise. You could stay up until 11, I'd get up at 8, and we could have sex at night, instead of in the morning when you seem to be at your horniest." I followed up with, "Every night?" She replied, "I suppose, five out of seven."

She was unnecessarily self-conscious about her appearance, which is why she spent most of the time we were together in fairly baggy tops and long pants in place of shorts. At 5'5, she'd always weighed around 110-115 pounds, but after taking anti-depressants to help with her agoraphobia, she'd gained about 30 pounds. "One bonus, I guess," she declared ironically, "Is that I'm a 36C or D instead of a 32B, but now the only bras that fit me right are sports bras." I told her multiple times during my visit that I thought she looked as desirable as ever, but she wasn't entirely buying it.

We spent the rest of Sunday checking out the town (such as it is) and had dinner at an Italian restaurant before going to a newly opened ice cream shop for dessert. Back at her place, she fired up a bong with some home-grown ganja (it's legal in Minnesota) and enticed me to take a few hits as well. One thing about T -- getting high means getting horny, and she didn't spare the smoke. It was my first foray since college, and she thought it was HILARIOUS that I hadn't indulged in close to 50 years. However, it seemingly had no effect on me, which she found equally funny. We ended up watching a PBS special on the life and times of Richard III of England, which apparently was much more entertaining for her in her altered state.

After a shower, I put on some short summer PJs and climbed into bed. She joined me about 10 minutes later wearing a different baggy t-shirt and long-leg pajama bottoms. She again expressed her displeasure with her weight gain, explained she hadn't had sex since New Year's Eve (the boy toy's final campaign, as it turned out), and stated she wasn't ready to "do anything" with me. I knew she'd consumed a fair amount of silly smoke, but I truthfully told her I was OK with that and didn't want to pressure her into anything. She switched off the light, and I figured that was that.

After about five minutes, she asked, "Are you asleep?" At the moment I was semi-hard and trying to figure out how I could jerk off without disturbing her. When I told her I was still awake, she asked, "Would you like a hand job?" Naturally I said yes, stripping off my PJ bottoms and tossing back the covers to give her all the access she required. She reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a tube of lube, spreading it generously on my cock-head and down the shaft before taking a firm grip and stroking me with precision. After a minute or so, she asked, "Does that feel good?" I said, "T, my love, whenever a woman has her hand on a guy's dick, that is a question that never needs to be asked!" She laughed and rested her head on my chest as she continued to stroke earnestly.

Curled up against me as she was, I managed to reach down behind her and slide my hand between her thighs. I wasn't sure she'd let me continue to rub her PJ-covered crotch, but she shifted around to give me better access, so I kept up the pressure. One thing about T -- she goes from zero to 60 faster than a tricked-out Shelby GT. I had her squirming, humping against my hand, and moaning loudly in less than two minutes. Without warning, her mouth engulfed my cock and she was delivering a very satisfactory blow job. I slid my hand inside her pajama bottoms and discovered how wet she was. I quickly had two fingers fully inside her pussy, and her vocalization was suddenly louder and about an octave higher. After a brief minute, she declared, "You just HAVE to fuck me!" Pulling away from me momentarily, she stripped off her PJs and climbed aboard. I was rock-hard and slid inside her with ease. Despite her surgeries a year earlier, she was still as tight as I'd remembered. T loves to be on top, and she was soon grinding her clit against me as she rocked back and forth on my cock.

I wanted to take off her top, but she resisted by saying, "No -- don't!" Instead, I pushed the hem of her t-shirt up above her breasts and tugged on her nipples. That trigged the first of what would prove to be dozens of orgasms that night, as she moaned, grunted, breathed hard, muttered "Oh, fuck" about 50 times, and bent down to kiss me with a ferocity I'd rarely experienced with any woman. After she worked herself into a second orgasm, T climbed off and rolled onto her back. That was my cue to do what I do best -- eat pussy. For the next 60-75 minutes, I had her quivering, crying out obscenities, shaking like a leaf, and coming again and again. The next morning, when I questioned whether she'd enjoyed what was close to a three-hour session, she struck back with my own logic. "When a guy with your skills has his mouth on a woman's clit and his fingers massaging every inch of the inside of her vagina, that's a question you never need to ask!"

Following wave after wave of orgasms, T pushed my face away from her crotch and asked, "Zac, you still hard?" I'd been grinding my erection firmly into her mattress the entire time I was eating her pussy, and it hadn't abated. "You bet," I replied enthusiastically, which was a surprise since it was close to 2 a.m., well past my normal bedtime. "You need to fuck me some more. You can come inside, since I have no more womb." I reminded her I'd had a vasectomy decades ago, at which point she said, "Oh, that's right. Well, what are you waiting for?" She rolled flat on her back and spread her legs wide apart before tugging on my erection and saying, "C'mon, shove it right in." And so I did.

When I was in my 20s and 30s, I suffered from a fairly quick trigger, ejaculation-wise. Now in my early 70s -- and really for the past 10-15 years -- it always takes me a long time to come, but I rarely if ever have difficulty getting and staying hard. Such was the case that night, as I fucked her insistently. She wrapped her legs around me and crossed her ankles to provide some leverage as she tugged me toward her, stroke after stroke. My arms were tiring from propping up my 225-pound body above her, and I started to make a move to disengage so I could find a less stressful position and then re-insert. She sensed I was about to climb off when she pulled me down against her chest and whispered in my ear, "You're not heavy. Just keep fucking me until you come." Who was I to argue with that? At this point she was well into double-digit orgasms, and figuring I'd done all I could to make her feel special, it was time to look after my own release. I let my mind focus on one thing -- the feeling in my cock as it was being gripped by T's pussy. Something like a dozen thrusts later, I froze up and pumped her full of man-jizz (that's what she likes to call it). I was exhausted and let my body press fully against hers. "Get off me, ya big lug!" she called out, half-jokingly, and I withdrew and rolled onto my side of the bed. "I suppose you want me to clean that up?" she asked, scooping up a drop of cum from the tip of my cock with her index finger before putting it into her mouth. "Well," I suggested, "You clean me up and I'll return the favor." "Nah, it's too late," T responded. "You stay there, and I'll bring back a washcloth."

She returned a few minutes later with the promised rag, moistened with warm water, and proceeded to mop up my crotch. "I can't believe how much you came in me," she said. "What -- you were saving it up for a special occasion?" I declared there was no more special occasion for me than being in her bed, which prompted a sensuous kiss on the lips and a "Oh, you're such a sweet-talker!" I was out like a light in less than two minutes, I'm sure, and we slept in until 10:30 the next morning. I awoke before she did (that's almost always the case), and after visiting the bathroom to pee, I came back to bed and tried to get her in the mood for some morning sex. After putting up with my hand rubbing her snatch through the PJs she'd put back on after we'd finished, she pushed me away and said, "Don't! My pussy's sore and I'll need all day to recover." That sounded like a good indicator for what might take place when next we went to be, and indeed it was. To be continued -----

Scandinavian :)

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