Dutch Reunion: Whipped & Naked

The scent of meringue, custard, and whipped cream hung heavy in the air, a cloying sweetness that clung to the plush velvet of the bed. Rain lashed against the windows, a melancholic soundtrack to our reunion. Ten days. Ten long days since Annie had left for the Netherlands, a whirlwind of relatives and obligations. We’d pretended, of course, that the absence hadn’t ripped a hole in the fabric of our lives, a desperate clinging to normalcy as if ignoring the insistent ache for each other would somehow make it disappear. Now, here we were, tangled together in the aftermath, a tangled mess of limbs and unspoken needs.

The shower had been a ritual, a shared cleansing before the indulgence. We dried each other, the dampness clinging to our skin like a second, insistent layer, the intimacy growing with each brush of fingertips against exposed flesh. Then, the coffee, strong and bitter, cut through the saccharine sweetness of the dessert, a necessary counterpoint. It wasn't the conversation that filled the space, but the unspoken knowledge of our shared longing, the desperate desire to fill the void left by our separation. The meringue, a cloud of airy sweetness, was barely touched, a testament to our focus on the immediate pleasure.

As we lay there, naked and vulnerable, the whipped cream beckoned. A generous dollop, scooped from the bowl with my erection, landed squarely on my stomach. It was a strange sensation, this use of my own body as a tool of pleasure, but the anticipation was exquisite. Annie, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of excitement and something darker, leaned over me, her fingers tracing the contours of my belly. The cold cream felt alien against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat building within me. Then, she took control, her movements deliberate, pushing against my muscles, her PC muscles straining with the effort. Her tits hung suspended in my face, a tantalizing invitation, and the pleasure intensified, a slow burn that threatened to consume me. It felt incredible, a release so potent it nearly shattered me. An orgasm, raw and primal, erupted, a seismic wave of sensation that left me gasping for air.

The cream, now diluted with my own release, tasted of both sweetness and shame. Annie continued, spooning another generous portion onto my stomach, this time mixed with a generous swirl of custard. My utensil, the same one that had delivered the initial wave of pleasure, now felt less awkward, more adept at navigating the landscape of my arousal. But as she lifted off, a small amount of the cream had spilled onto the sheets, falling just beyond my reach. It was a minor setback, easily remedied, but the thought of her touching it, licking it off, sent a fresh wave of desire through me.

She laid beside me once more, this time placing a couple more spoonfuls of the creamy concoction on my stomach. As she did so, her phone rang. It was her sister, calling from across the ocean. The conversation, as she described later, was a blur of gossip and shared secrets, a glimpse into the lives of women who understood the language of touch and unspoken desires. Annie’s own orgasm approached, a slow, building crescendo of sensation. She pretended not to notice, maintaining a facade of nonchalance as she continued to dip my knob in the cream, licking it off with a practiced hand. Her pleasure was palpable, radiating outwards, and as it reached its peak, a massive spasm ripped through her body, a release so powerful it shook the bed beneath us.

“I can hardly believe I made that strange noise,” she gasped, breathless and flushed.

“It was amazing,” I replied, my voice hoarse with pleasure. “But what’s with the courier? A bit lame, don’t you think?”

“It was better than ‘I am about to come. Got to go’,” she retorted, a hint of defiance in her voice.

I couldn’t argue with her.

We agreed that it had been an exceptional dessert, a perfect indulgence in our shared desire. The shower was a necessary follow-up, a ritual cleansing after the intensity of our encounter. Back in bed, we kissed and cuddled, the lingering heat of our passion a tangible presence in the room. We drifted off to sleep, intertwined, lost in the intoxicating haze of our shared pleasure.

The next morning, she snuggled close, her warmth seeping into my skin. We made love slowly, deliberately, savoring each touch, each caress, each moment of shared intimacy. The pleasure was profound, a release that left us both weak with satisfaction. It was a conscious choice, a purposeful denial of climax, allowing us to prolong the experience, to maximize the pleasure for one another.

The doorbell rang, shattering the quiet intimacy of the moment. It was her other sister, arriving for coffee, a spontaneous visit that added another layer to the already complicated dynamic of our lives. Annie jumped up, pulling on a tiny top and shorts, her movements quick and efficient. She let her sister in, a flash of tanned skin and dark hair.

As the girls prepared the coffee, Annie’s sister made a pointed observation, “When you arrived, you had just been done, hadn’t you?”

“Thoroughly,” I confirmed, unable to suppress a smug grin. “But how can you tell?”

“Will puts a spring in your step. And he puts something else in, too. You are getting a wet patch.”

“Oops, sorry,” I mumbled, a blush creeping up my neck. “I will go and change.”

“Don’t apologise. I am envious, I can hardly wait.”

I didn’t know how to respond to such blatant desire, but I was grateful for the attention. The conversation that followed was a testament to the frankness of our relationship, a brutal honesty that stripped away any pretense of restraint. It was clear that these women were not shy about their observations, their judgments, their desires. They read each other like books, and Hollanders, as Annie had put it, said things that people in other cultures just knew were ‘better left unsaid.’

Later, as Annie recounted the conversation, her sister’s comments hung in the air like a lingering scent. “When I arrived you had just been done, hadn’t you?” she repeated, her voice laced with a mixture of envy and amusement. “Thoroughly. But how can you tell?”

“Will puts a spring in your step. And he puts something else in, too. You are getting a wet patch.”

“Oops, sorry,” I offered, unable to fully articulate my embarrassment. "I will go and change."

The sheer audacity of her observation was both shocking and exhilarating. I was acutely aware of her gaze, her lingering scrutiny, and the undeniable heat building within me. It was a good thing I wasn’t there to witness the full force of the conversation, a silent observer spared from the discomfort of sharing such intimate details.

As the hours passed, the desire continued to build, fueled by shared glances, stolen touches, and the lingering memory of our previous encounter. The rain continued to fall, creating a melancholic atmosphere that only intensified our connection. It was a perfect storm of lust, desire, and shared intimacy, a potent combination that left us both breathless and yearning for more.

When Annie’s sister left, she paused at the door, her eyes lingering on me with an unspoken invitation. She made a final, pointed remark, “Everyone does it, so why pretend otherwise?” Then, she was gone, leaving us alone once more in the aftermath of our passion.

Annie, feeling particularly vibrant, pulled on a top and her tiny shorts, a playful display of confidence. She sat with her feet up on her chair, chatting animatedly while showing off her beautiful legs. I was acutely aware of her lithe form, the curve of her hips, the delicate arch of her back. It was a small pleasure, but one that sent a shiver down my spine.

As the girls prepared the coffee, Annie’s sister commented, “When I arrived you had just been done, hadn’t you?”

“Thoroughly,” I replied, unable to suppress a smug grin. “But how can you tell?”

“Will puts a spring in your step. And he puts something else in, too. You are getting a wet patch.”

“Oops, sorry,” I mumbled, a blush creeping up my neck. "I will go and change."

The sheer audacity of her observation was both shocking and exhilarating. I was acutely aware of her gaze, her lingering scrutiny, and the undeniable heat building within me. It was a good thing I wasn’t there to witness the full force of the conversation, a silent observer spared from the discomfort of sharing such intimate details.

The day unfolded with a languid pace, filled with stolen glances and lingering touches. The shared desire hung heavy in the air, a palpable force that shaped every interaction. It was a strange and wonderful feeling, to be so completely consumed by another person, to lose oneself in the intoxicating pleasure of their presence. We moved through the day as one, a single entity fueled by lust and longing.

As evening approached, the tension finally broke. We returned to bed, drawn together by an irresistible force. We kissed and cuddled, lost in the familiar comfort of each other's embrace. Then, without a word, we began to make love, surrendering to the primal urges that had driven us since the first moment we met. It was a passionate, unrestrained affair, a release of pent-up desire that left us both weak with satisfaction. The rain continued to fall outside, a soothing accompaniment to our shared pleasure.

As we drifted off to sleep, intertwined in the sheets, I realized that this reunion had been more than just a return to normalcy. It had been a rebirth, a reminder of the raw, unbridled passion that lay dormant within us, waiting to be unleashed. And as I closed my eyes, I knew that this was just the beginning.

Did you like this story? Dutch Reunion: Whipped & Naked look, but like these, here Sex stories.