Slumbering Sin

Saturday nights. Gotta love ‘em. The air hung thick with the scent of cheap wine and regret, clinging to the plush velvet of the couch where we’d fallen into a tangled heap of limbs and half-formed desires. It had been a small gathering, just the four of us – me, my wife, Sarah, and our friends, Mark and Lisa. We’d celebrated Mark’s birthday with an abundance of spirits, blurring the lines between conversation and oblivion until we were all drifting in and out of consciousness, a shared, hazy dreamscape.

Now, hours later, I felt a distinct pressure against my lower abdomen, a slow, insistent rhythm that sent a jolt of anticipation through my body. It was her. My wife. And she wasn't letting sleep win. A low murmur tickled my ear, a silken whisper against my skin. “I’m in the mood,” she breathed, her voice husky with arousal.

I shifted slightly, trying to discern the source of the sensation. My eyes, heavy with fatigue, struggled to focus on the darkened forms of Mark and Lisa, still lost in their slumber. They seemed oblivious to the escalating heat building within me. “Just give me five more minutes,” I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep. The promise, even to myself, felt weak, pathetic. Sarah didn't waste another second. Her fingers dug deeper, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent shivers crawling across my skin. The pressure intensified, a mounting wave of pleasure threatening to overwhelm my senses.

Then, she did something unexpected. With a swift, decisive movement, she grasped my hand and pulled it beneath her skirt, her fingers tracing the sensitive flesh beneath the fabric. Her thong, a delicate lace affair, rode low, and her twat pulsed with a slow, insistent rhythm. It was a blatant invitation, a blatant disregard for our friends' slumbering bodies, and I couldn’t possibly resist.

The warmth spread quickly, soaking my hand and the soft cotton of her underwear. The couch itself became slick with moisture, mirroring the rising tide of desire within me. The five minutes I’d pleaded for were long gone, swallowed by the relentless advance of my own arousal. I started to come, the familiar build-up of tension turning into an unstoppable force. My muscles clenched, my breath hitched, and a moan escaped my lips.

She leaned closer, her body radiating heat against mine. Her grip tightened, pulling me towards her glorious tits. Without hesitation, I began devouring them, my mouth tracing the curve of her breasts, my tongue exploring every nook and cranny. Simultaneously, my fingers found their way into her pussy, slowly, deliberately, meeting her need.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she reached the point of no return. “Oh my god, oh my god!” she whispered, her voice strained with pleasure. The release was explosive, a volcanic eruption of sensation that shook her entire body. She tensed, then relaxed, her muscles trembling with the aftermath of her pleasure.

As she recovered, I wrapped my arm around her, pulling her close. The scent of her skin, mingled with the lingering aroma of wine and arousal, filled my senses. I retrieved my own pleasure device from the table beside us, a sleek, black cylinder that promised untold delights. With a confident hand, I inserted it into her receptive opening, feeling the immediate, undeniable connection.

Her moans grew louder, more insistent, as she rode me with a frantic energy. She stroked me rhythmically, pushing me deeper and deeper into ecstasy. I tilted my head back, surrendering to the sensation, letting her take complete control. She grabbed my head, placing it gently on her tits, savoring the intimacy of the moment. I knew how much she loved that gesture, the way she held me close, letting me bask in the warmth of her embrace.

As she continued her ministrations, I started sucking on her clit, further fueling the fire within me. There was no shame, no regret, only a primal urge to lose myself in the pleasure of the moment. My friends remained oblivious, lost in their sleep, completely unaware of the passionate encounter unfolding in their living room.

My cock twitched uncontrollably, unable to contain the overwhelming sensations. Cum flooded my hand, soaking my shirt and spreading across her skirt. The sight of it, the sheer volume of pleasure being released, only served to intensify my arousal. I kissed her repeatedly, groping her body with unrestrained abandon, mimicking the awkward, passionate encounters of teenagers locked in a car backseat.

Finally, we both calmed down, exhausted but satisfied. We decided to gather our things and make a hasty retreat, determined to escape the confines of our friends' house before they awoke. They were still snoring softly, lost in the depths of their sleep. As we slipped out the back door, a sense of liberation washed over me.

The drive home was silent, filled only with the lingering echoes of our passionate encounter. As we pulled into our driveway, I noticed something strange. My wife's black shirt had massive amounts of white stains, a testament to the intensity of our shared pleasure. A slow smile spread across my face. It was a small price to pay for the unforgettable experience we had just shared. The memory, the scent, the touch – it would stay with me long after the last traces of arousal had faded. It was a Saturday night to remember, a perfect example of the raw, uninhibited desires that simmer beneath the surface of civilized society. A good hand in need, indeed.

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