Briefs, Cologne, and a Rush

The scent of his cologne, a potent blend of sandalwood and musk, hung heavy in the air as I entered our master bath, still clutching my purse and feeling the lingering exhaustion of a long day. He was already there, meticulously shaving, his back to me, a stark silhouette against the gleaming chrome fixtures. The invitation was implicit, a silent plea for connection in the aftermath of a demanding workday. As I stepped further into the room, the soft fabric of his briefs peeked out, a tantalizing glimpse of the pleasure awaiting. The sight was undeniably stimulating, but the urgency of my situation demanded more than just visual gratification. I needed to feel his presence, to lose myself in the moment.

“Stop right there,” he said, his voice low and possessive, turning to face me with a slow, deliberate grace. His eyes, dark and intense, held a playful challenge, daring me to cross the line. A playful eye roll escaped my lips as I met his gaze, acknowledging the unspoken invitation while asserting my own boundaries. "I was able to push the reservation back a little later, so we have time," he continued, a subtle reassurance in his tone. The promise of extended intimacy was a welcome reprieve from the relentless demands of my daily routine.

With a rush of anticipation, I reached out, gently tracing the curve of his jawline before my lips met his. A stolen kiss, a quick and passionate exchange, it was enough to ignite the flames within me. The taste of his skin, slightly salty and infused with the scent of his cologne, sent shivers down my spine. I lingered in the kiss, savoring the sensation, letting the urgency subside as we found a rhythm. It was a dance of desire, a silent conversation spoken through touch and taste.

“Get your shower,” he commanded, pulling back slightly, his hand still resting lightly on my cheek. “I’ll be waiting—preparing.” The words were laced with an underlying suggestion, an unspoken expectation. The thought of him anticipating my needs, meticulously preparing for our encounter, both thrilled and intimidated me. With a sigh of surrender, I retreated to the shower, letting the warm water wash away the day's stress, while his preparations continued behind closed doors.

The steam filled the air, carrying the intoxicating fragrance of his cologne and the lingering scent of my own soap. As my soapy hands glided over my body, I felt a strange sense of anticipation, a heightened awareness of my own sensuality. The water intensified my nipples, making them ache with a delicious tension, and as I turned on the water, a soft moan escaped my lips. The shower became a sanctuary, a place where I could fully embrace my desires without judgment or restraint.

Emerging from the shower, wrapped in a plush towel, I was met with his warm gaze and the promise of continued intimacy. The towel, soft and enveloping, felt like a gentle caress, instantly relaxing my muscles and drawing me closer to him. He began to dry me with meticulous care, following the contours of my body with skilled hands, as if savoring every inch of my skin. As he continued his ministrations, I realized that his touch was not merely functional; it was an act of profound pleasure.

His hands moved with a deliberate, sensual grace, pressing more firmly on my cooch than the other areas, stimulating my pleasure center with focused intensity. His massaging movements traced the delicate pathways of my perineum, my honeydripper, and my clitoris, creating a symphony of sensation that left me breathless. I melted into his embrace, surrendering to the moment, allowing myself to be completely consumed by his touch.

“Please, don’t stop,” I whispered, my voice barely audible above the sound of the running water. My body writhed in response, begging for more, longing for the release of pleasure. It was an instinctive plea, a desperate yearning that transcended words. With a sigh of surrender, he continued his ministrations, pushing me further into the depths of ecstasy.

As he continued, my eyes fell upon the old sixties kitchen chair in the center of the bathroom. The chrome pipe frame held seat and back cushions wrapped in thick, tight and sparkling vinyl, the kind where your naked skin feels like it’s peeling off onto the chair as you stand up. It was a stark reminder of the physical intimacy we were about to experience, an object of both desire and anticipation.

He sat me down on the chair, the cool vinyl a welcome contrast to my heated skin. As he stood behind me, warmed his hands, and put some of my skin cream on them, I felt a surge of excitement. He knew my love for being fondled, and he was determined to fulfill my every whim. His warm hands began by cupping and lifting the whole breast, then moved on to massaging the entire breast, paying special attention to my areolas and nipples. The cream allowed his hands to glide like silk over my breasts, creating a sensation that was both intense and exquisite.

As he worked his thumbs and index fingers around the hardness of my nipples, I let out a moan of pleasure. "Mmmmh," I showed my approval with an audible moan. His movements were deliberate, precise, and undeniably arousing. The combination of touch and sensation left me trembling with anticipation.

He shifted his focus, using his fingers and palms to stimulate the sensitive areas between my legs. His hands moved with a rhythmic grace, exploring every inch of my body, drawing forth a torrent of pleasure. With each movement, my body responded with increasing intensity, my muscles tensing, my breath quickening, my senses heightened.

With a final, lingering touch, he removed his hands, leaving me breathless and trembling. Then he grabbed a towel and wiped the excess cream from my chest before dabbling my brow, neck, and shoulders to dry the slight sheen of sweat that had gathered there. As he finished, he removed my bindings and said, "Time to get ready. We’re still going to dinner.”

Dressed in tight jeans and heels, with an old worn-out concert shirt draped over my breasts, I felt both confident and vulnerable. The thin shirt allowed my curves to show, revealing just enough cleavage, and the movement of my hips created a playful bounce as I walked. I knew my husband would be drawn to my appearance, captivated by the sensual allure of my form.

As we got into the car, I rolled down the window, letting in the cool air and the scent of the open road. The lingering warmth of my arousal kept me on edge, a constant reminder of the passion we had shared. My pussy was still wet, and I wondered what my husband would think of the small spot of juice that had transferred to my thighs.

At the restaurant, I found my husband sitting at a table, his eyes scanning the room with a calculating gaze. He had clearly been waiting for me, anticipating my arrival and eager to continue our intimate encounter. As we sat down, I felt a sense of excitement building within me, a premonition of the pleasure to come.

“Show me,” he said, his voice low and suggestive, drawing my attention to his eyes. "Prove to me how horny I’ve made you." The challenge hung in the air, a silent dare that ignited my desire. Without hesitation, I began to unbuckle my belt, slowly releasing my jeans as I moved towards him. The movement was deliberate, sensual, designed to heighten the anticipation.

As I continued to unbutton and unzip my pants, my body tensed with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. I could feel his gaze fixed upon me, his eyes never leaving my form. With a final, decisive movement, I removed my jeans, exposing my bare bottom to his scrutiny. The sensation was both thrilling and slightly terrifying, a testament to the power of our connection.

My hands were tied to each cold chrome tube of the back support holding the vintage backrest. My ankles were tied to the front legs. Then he stood behind me, warmed his hands, and put some of my skin cream on them. Then he played with my breasts—just my breasts, with no other focus. He knows I love my tits to be fondled. He hypnotizes me this way.

His warm hands started by cupping and lifting the whole breast. It soon turned into a massage of the whole breast, but he paid special attention to my areolas and nipples—special attention that I relished. The cream allowed his hands to glide like silk over my breasts. He moved ever so slowly, with such precise purpose. He played in swirling patterns, gently clutching, mixing both gentle and coarse textures into my arousing tension.

“Oh, yes! Right there. Ah, my nipples. Don’t stop!”
My breath came more heavily as his fingertips and fingernails greasily slipped over the tiny bumps on my areola, then my nipples. My body jolted. I quivered at the ticklish pleasure. My breath halted as I jumped.

Then, he began.
He worked his thumbs and index fingers around the hardness of my nipples as they ached with pleasure.
“Mmmmh,” I showed my approval with an audible moan.
He pushed, pulled, pressed and prodded on each side, using his fingers and palms in the massage. My eyes were closed, but I was on high alert as the sensations rose like a phoenix! My legs clenched my cookie between them.

His hands left my body.
He grabbed a towel and wiped the excess cream from my chest, then dabbed my brow, neck, and shoulders to dry the slight sheen of sweat that had gathered there.
As he finished, he removed my bindings and said, “Time to get ready. We’re still going to dinner.”

As I stood, I left a wet spot on the vinyl. A clear ink blot, if you will, of cunt juice plastered across my thighs, labia, and the cushion.
I was not allowed to dry myself off.

Dressed casually for the night in tight jeans and heels, with an old worn-out concert shirt, I felt both confident and vulnerable. The thin shirt allowed my curves to show, revealing just enough cleavage, and the movement of my hips created a playful bounce as I walked. I knew my husband would be drawn to my appearance, captivated by the sensual allure of my form.

On the way to the restaurant, I rolled the car window down a bit because I was hot. I hadn’t been allowed to cum yet, and my body was still tense. All abuzz from his attention with the bath towel, then what he’d done to me in the chair, I had to cum! I felt like a racehorse wanting to jump the gate!

As we were seated at the restaurant, I could feel that my black lace panties were still wet—very wet. I only hope there wasn’t a wet spot showing through my jeans.

“Show me,” my husband said at a normal table talk volume.

“Show you what?” I asked, still frazzled by the buzz of arousal.

“Prove to me how horny I’ve made you.”

He was playing Mr. Cool, but he knew exactly what he had done to me. Now he’d walked me into this corner and was making me perform.

I focused my stare on him, wondering what it was, exactly, he expected me to do. Does he want my panties? I thought.

I looked around the room, assessing the possibility of such a daring act. The angle was favorable for keeping anyone else from getting too much of a view. The tablecloth and my old shirt were both long enough to be concealing as well.

Well, here goes nothing, I thought.

He sat me down.

Then he bound me.

My hands were tied to each cold chrome tube of the back support holding the vintage backrest. My ankles were tied to the front legs. Then he stood behind me, warmed his hands, and put some of my skin cream on them. Then he played with my breasts—just my breasts, with no other focus. He knows I love my tits to be fondled. He hypnotizes me this way.

His warm hands started by cupping and lifting the whole breast. It soon turned into a massage of the whole breast, but he paid special attention to my areolas and nipples—special attention that I relished. The cream allowed his hands to glide like silk over my breasts. He moved ever so slowly, with such precise purpose. He played in swirling patterns, gently clutching, mixing both gentle and coarse textures into my arousing tension.

“Oh, yes! Right there. Ah, my nipples. Don’t stop!”
My breath came more heavily as his fingertips and fingernails greasily slipped over the tiny bumps on my areola, then my nipples. My body jolted. I quivered at the ticklish pleasure. My breath halted as I jumped.

Then, he began.
He worked his thumbs and index fingers around the hardness of my nipples as they ached with pleasure.
“Mmmmh,” I showed my approval with an audible moan.
He pushed, pulled, pressed and prodded on each side, using his fingers and palms in the massage. My eyes were closed, but I was on high alert as the sensations rose like a phoenix! My legs clenched my cookie between them.

His hands left my body.
He grabbed a towel and wiped the excess cream from my chest, then dabbed my brow, neck, and shoulders to dry the slight sheen of sweat that had gathered there.
As he finished, he removed my bindings and said, “Time to get ready. We’re still going to dinner.”

As I stood, I left a wet spot on the vinyl. A clear ink blot, if you will, of cunt juice plastered across my thighs, labia, and the cushion.
I was not allowed to dry myself off.

Dressed casually for the night in tight jeans and heels, with an old worn-out concert shirt, I felt both confident and vulnerable. The thin shirt allowed my curves to show, revealing just enough cleavage, and the movement of my hips created a playful bounce as I walked. I knew my husband would be drawn to my appearance, captivated by the sensual allure of my form.

On the way to the restaurant, I rolled the car window down a bit because I was hot. I hadn’t been allowed to cum yet, and my body was still tense. All abuzz from his attention with the bath towel, then what he’d done to me in the chair, I had to cum! I felt like a racehorse wanting to jump the gate!

As we were seated at the restaurant, I could feel that my black lace panties were still wet—very wet. I only hope there wasn’t a wet spot showing through my jeans.

“Show me,” my husband said at a normal table talk volume.

“Show you what?” I asked, still frazzled by the buzz of arousal.

“Prove to me how horny I’ve made you.”

He was playing Mr. Cool, but he knew exactly what he had done to me. Now he’d walked me into this corner and was making me perform.

I focused my stare on him, wondering what it was, exactly, he expected me to do. Does he want my panties? I thought.

I looked around the room, assessing the possibility of such a daring act. The angle was favorable for keeping anyone else from getting too much of a view. The tablecloth and my old shirt were both long enough to be concealing as well.

Well, here goes nothing, I thought.

He sat me down.

Then he bound me.

My hands were tied to each cold chrome tube of the back support holding the vintage backrest. My ankles were tied to the front legs. Then he stood behind me, warmed his hands, and put some of my skin cream on them. Then he played with my breasts—just my breasts, with no other focus. He knows I love my tits to be fondled. He hypnotizes me this way.

His warm hands started by cupping and lifting the whole breast. It soon turned into a massage of the whole breast, but he paid special attention to my areolas and nipples—special attention that I relished. The cream allowed his hands to glide like silk over my breasts. He moved ever so slowly, with such precise purpose. He played in swirling patterns, gently clutching, mixing both gentle and coarse textures into my arousing tension.

“Oh, yes! Right there. Ah, my nipples. Don’t stop!”
My breath came more heavily as his fingertips and fingernails greasily slipped over the tiny bumps on my areola, then my nipples. My body jolted. I quivered at the ticklish pleasure. My breath halted as I jumped.

Then, he began.
He worked his thumbs and index fingers around the hardness of my nipples as they ached with pleasure.
“Mmmmh,” I showed my approval with an audible moan.
He pushed, pulled, pressed and prodded on each side, using his fingers and palms in the massage. My eyes were closed, but I was on high alert as the sensations rose like a phoenix! My legs clenched my cookie between them.

His hands left my body.
He grabbed a towel and wiped the excess cream from my chest, then dabbed my brow, neck, and shoulders to dry the slight sheen of sweat that had gathered there.
As he finished, he removed my bindings and said, “Time to get ready. We’re still going to dinner.”

As I stood, I left a wet spot on the vinyl. A clear ink blot, if you will, of cunt juice plastered across my thighs, labia, and the cushion.
I was not allowed to dry myself off.

Dressed casually for the night in tight jeans and heels, with an old worn-out concert shirt, I felt both confident and vulnerable. The thin shirt allowed my curves to show, revealing just enough cleavage, and the movement of my hips created a playful bounce as I walked. I knew my husband would be drawn to my appearance, captivated by the sensual allure of my form.

On the way to the restaurant, I rolled the car window down a bit because I was hot. I hadn’t been allowed to cum yet, and my body was still tense. All abuzz from his attention with the bath towel, then what he’d done to me in the chair, I had to cum! I felt like a racehorse wanting to jump the gate!

As we were seated at the restaurant, I could feel that my black lace panties were still wet—very wet. I only hope there wasn’t a wet spot showing through my jeans.

“Show me,” my husband said at a normal table talk volume.

“Show you what?” I asked, still frazzled by the buzz of arousal.

“Prove to me how horny I’ve made you.”

He was playing Mr. Cool, but he knew exactly what he had done to me. Now he’d walked me into this corner and was making me perform.

I focused

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