Pink Panties, Purple Lust

The velvet darkness of the bedroom clung to me, thick and heavy, mirroring the heat that still throbbed through my body. The pastel pink satin of your panties, remnants of our last encounter, lay crumpled on the floor, a tangible reminder of the exquisite pleasure I’d just experienced. The lingering scent of your perfume, a blend of vanilla and something subtly musky, filled the air, clinging to the sheets, to my skin, a fragrant echo of your presence. It felt like only moments ago that I’d been lost in the intoxicating rhythm of your touch, the insistent pressure of your body against mine, the urgent pleas for more that vibrated through every cell in my being.

I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, letting the waves of pleasure slowly subside. The memory of your skin, so smooth and supple beneath my hands, replayed in my mind's eye. The way your muscles flexed as you arched your back, the delicate curve of your spine, the insistent pressure of your breasts against my chest. Each sensation, each touch, burned into my memory, fueling a desperate longing for your return.

I reached for the worn leather album on the nightstand, its cover embossed with a faded image of us laughing on a sun-drenched beach. The pages were filled with photographs, a chronicle of our intimate moments, each one a testament to our shared desire. I flipped through them, reliving our past encounters, my fingers tracing the outlines of your body in the glossy paper.

There you were, in your early twenties, a vibrant blonde sprawled naked on a tropical beach, your long tanned legs splayed wide, your abundant pubic hair a vibrant brown against the pale sand. A primal urge surged through me, a visceral reaction to the raw beauty of your youthful form. The image of your exposed chest, your generous breasts, ignited a fire in my gut, a primal hunger that demanded satisfaction.

Turning the page, I found a picture of you on a plush hotel bed, your legs spread wide, your ample breasts thrust forward in a provocative pose. The memory of that night flooded back, the feeling of your body contorting beneath my hand, the heat of your breath on my skin, the desperate need for release that consumed us both. The sheer audacity of your pose, the brazen display of your sexuality, sent a shiver down my spine.

I moved on to more recent photos, each one a more explicit reminder of our passion. One image showed you squatting naked on a kitchen table, your hairy pussy and vagina slit peeping between your thigh tops below your cheeky rounded bottom. The sight of your exposed anatomy, your uninhibited body, was both exhilarating and terrifying. The feeling of power, of dominance, that surged through me was intoxicating.

Another photo depicted you from behind, your legs wide, your hairy pussy and vagina slit visible between your thighs. You were looking at me over your shoulder, your dark eyes burning with a mixture of desire and challenge. The image held me captive, the memory of that moment seared into my mind. It was the moment I realized just how completely consumed by you I was.

As I continued to browse through the album, my mind raced back to the height of our last encounter. The memory of your hand between my legs, caressing my inner thighs, your warm wet lips squeezing, sucking, and sliding rhythmically up and down my iron-hard shaft. The feel of your body arching against me, the scent of your orgasm filling my senses. It was a symphony of pleasure, a crescendo of desire, a moment of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic rhythm mirroring the waves of pleasure still coursing through my veins. I closed my eyes, reliving the experience in vivid detail, savoring every touch, every sensation. The memory of your voice, your breathless pleas for more, echoed in my ears.

Suddenly, I felt the familiar urge to begin again. I rolled over, pushing myself up on my elbows, my body aching with anticipation. I reached for the bottle of high-end lubricant on the nightstand, applying a generous amount to my trembling hands. My erect penis strained against the confines of my trousers, eager to meet your invitation.

I lay on my back, spreading my legs wide, the satin sheets clinging to my skin. The sight of my own hard, glistening cock arched up from my thick bush of pubic hair over my belly was both a source of excitement and anxiety. I began to stroke my scrotum and groin, finding pleasure in the anticipation of your touch. Then, I reached between my legs, tickling my arse, just the way you did when you knelt nude beside me, hand-jobbing me. The memory of your big breasts swinging above me, gently swinging, your legs perfectly placed for me to run my fingers through your soft round bottom.

As I continued to stroke myself, my arousal intensified, my body trembling with anticipation. The scent of your perfume grew stronger, filling my nostrils, drawing me deeper into the vortex of desire. My fingers danced across my shaft, teasing and caressing, preparing for the ultimate release.

I oiled my hand and my straining stiff penis with the cream you use when you give me a hand job, then wrapped my fist around my shaft and began to pump – smoothly, rhythmically, full length from my pubic hair to my cock head. The rhythmic motion, the constant pressure, intensified my pleasure, pushing me closer to the brink of orgasm. I tugged and stroked my foreskin for a moment before sliding my hand right up over my big round so-sensitive penis head and catching its basal ridge with the ring of my thumb and forefinger, just the way you do it for me.

“ Janet!” I grunted your name as I squirm my hips with my rising sex pleasure. “Want to fuck you hard!”

As the pleasure rose, I eased off, just making little strokes now with my thumb and forefinger in a ring, stroking across the ridge of my cock head as I held my throbbing penis on the very brink of orgasm. The pleasure was almost unbearable! I caught myself panting, my breath ragged, my muscles tense.

“Janet! Janet! … nggghhhh! … nggghhhh! …. Ahhhhhh!”

My back arched up involuntarily, thrusting my hips toward the woman my body thinks is riding my pulsing, spurting penis. My cum sprayed high up my chest and over my belly. I lay there, panting, savouring the memory of your body, and enjoying the last pulses of sexual pleasure in my still-half-erect penis. As my semen started to trickle down my side, I wiped it off my penis, off my naked body, and out of my pubic hair with your panties.

The thought of your return, your touch, your embrace, filled me with an almost unbearable longing. The bedroom felt cold, empty, devoid of your presence. I glanced at the bedside clock—no time to lose. You will be back here with the kids in half an hour. After a last browse through pictures of you, a last lingering ogle of you on all fours, I close our album and carefully hide it away. I check the bed cover for semen splashes and smooth the bed so you’ll never know, though I’m sure you suspect. I reluctantly dress, then I toss your semen-soaked panties back into the laundry basket and await your return, my body aching for the next time you’ll unleash the storm of pleasure that only you can provide.

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