Tights, Thighs, and My Wife's Delight

The scent of rain clung to the air as I pulled into the driveway, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling over me after a grueling day at the law firm. Twenty years. Twenty years of marriage, of building a life with Sarah, and yet, something primal still surged within me, a deep-seated desire that refused to be extinguished. As I stepped out of the car, the porch light cast a warm glow, illuminating the shadows of our home, a testament to the quiet comfort we had cultivated over the years. Sarah, my beautiful, aging smoke show, was waiting for me.

I’d always been captivated by her, even in our younger days. Her perfectly formed breasts, a generous pair of B cups, were a constant source of pleasure, and her vagina, a masterpiece of nature, held a unique allure for me. It was a canvas of sensual delights – a delicate butterfly wing shape, a natural red landing strip, sometimes extending into a lush, abundant bush. I never understood the appeal of shaving; her natural beauty was far more captivating than any artificial smoothness. Her ability to pack a panty was legendary, a testament to her own well-maintained sexuality.

We'd always made a conscious effort to maintain a vibrant sex life despite the demands of our careers and raising two grown children. It wasn’t always easy, but we made it a priority, finding moments of intimacy amidst the chaos of daily life. While she no longer wore her signature tights or thigh highs, my desire for them never diminished. There were times when I’d sneak into her lingerie drawer, lost in the intoxicating scent of silk and lace, imagining her legs rubbing against my neck as I wrapped one of her silky stockings around my penis. The thought of tasting her sweet nectar, or perhaps indulging in a slow, deliberate foot job, filled me with an almost unbearable anticipation. Even a simple rub against her soft panties could ignite a fire within me, a reminder of the passion we once shared.

One night, fueled by an impulsive decision, I decided to revisit my obsession. I purchased a pair of Wolford seamless 50 denier tights, a decadent indulgence for which I felt no shame. They were expensive, a testament to their quality and the sheer pleasure they promised. I placed them discreetly in her lingerie drawer, a silent challenge, a silent plea for a night of unrestrained passion.

Weeks turned into months, and nothing happened. The tights remained hidden, a secret yearning in the depths of my heart. Just as I was beginning to doubt my own desires, one fateful evening, she appeared in sweatpants and an old college shirt. I went to bed first, anticipating the inevitable. When she climbed in beside me, I felt a rush of anticipation as I detected the familiar smooth, silky texture against my leg. It was one of the Wolfords. Without a word, I shifted her gently, massaging her neck and back while my penis, eager and insistent, rubbed against her leg. The anticipation built, a crescendo of desire that threatened to overwhelm me. I parted her legs, allowing myself to feel the heat radiating from her perfect, uninhibited vagina. I teased her labia with light touches, savoring the exquisite sensation, watching as she succumbed to the pleasure, her body quickly becoming saturated with moisture. The material was soaked, and I could smell her sweet, intoxicating scent.

She pushed me off, taking control, clambering onto my chest, grinding the seamless, wet tights against my throbbing member. God, it felt so good. I kissed her nipples, moaned with pleasure, and she responded in kind. The passion was electric, primal, a reminder of the intense connection we shared. We shifted into the 69 position, her butt and vagina gyrating against my face. Her meaty vagina was a source of immense satisfaction, her lips hanging down, her pink lips outlined against the damp fabric of her tights, her ginger landing strip compressed, a testament to her arousal. I licked and sucked with desperate abandon, as if trying to drain every last drop of pleasure from her body. It was a frantic, overwhelming experience, a release of pent-up desires that left me breathless and trembling.

As she gently kissed my penis and pressed away on my face, she came, unleashing a torrent of her own juices. The force of her release was both exhilarating and terrifying, a testament to her sheer power. I couldn't contain myself any longer, succumbing to the overwhelming tide of passion and lust. Without hesitation, I pushed her off, tearing a large hole in the tights while feeling the fabric rip apart. Slipping into her vagina with ease, her legs together, her feet rubbing against my face, I moved her into the doggy position. My pelvic bone ground against her backside, taking long, deliberate strokes and short, grinding motions, reveling in the exquisite sensation. The combination of the Wolfords and her vibrant, wet vagina gripping my penis made me quiver uncontrollably. I simply couldn't hold it in, allowing myself to be consumed by the moment, coming inside her like we did in our twenties.

The next morning, I found the ravaged remains of the Wolford tights scattered across the bedroom floor. She was curled up on the couch in the living room, engrossed in a television program. As I picked up the remnants of our passion, the scent of our shared intimacy clung to the fabric. I came hard, my thoughts immediately drifting back to her, her beauty, her sensuality, her undeniable appeal.

Later that week, I decided to indulge my whim once more. This time, I purchased a pair of Calzedonia 20 denier tights, hoping to recapture the magic of the previous night. Now, I wait, patiently, anticipating the next opportunity to lose myself in the intoxicating allure of her body, her senses, and the exquisite pleasure that only she can provide. The anticipation builds, a silent promise of another unforgettable night, another exploration of the depths of our shared desire, and a reminder that even after twenty years of marriage, there’s always room for a little bit of forbidden delight.

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