My gorgeous, beautiful, lovely, hot, shy, brunette, ***-naked wife without kids, is about to have a very memorable ****** in front of a totally safe, mixed audience of couples, with the HARDEST, LONGEST, MOST-PROTRUDING ******* EVER on her deliciously suckable, creamy, milk-white, B-cup *****;βa full-on, ****-naked, gushing, shattering, full-bodied ****** that will leave no muscles uninvolved. She's going to feel it in her pinky toes. It's broad daylight on a sunny day. It couldn't be brighter. The light couldn't be lighter. It's hot and summery. The room is silent except for the sounds of her breathing and heaving and moaning, and the sound of skin on skin contact, and the wet sounds of her very wet ******. She's facing the transfixed faces. Her legs are spread wide apart; her knees bend over my knees. Her ***** is spread wide open; her juicy ****** glistens in the natural light. My fingertips are all over her ****. And then I go deep inside the glory of her womanhood. My fingers come out soaking wet. I firmly massage her own juices into her own ****. They shine like high beams in the rain. And then I pinch and twist and pull her bodacious ******* before I go back down for more basting nectar.
I'm fully clothed. She's the only one who's naked, and she couldn't be more naked. No one else has ever been so naked. She's so naked you can almost see her ovaries. We're in a huge, bulky recliner with plush pillows. My hands are handling her more and more vigorously. Her naked **** heave and bounce, and she touches herself as much as I touch her. She's travels all over my lap, and up and down my chest. Sometimes her ******* almost swallows my nose, sometimes it's eye to eye with an aroused spectator. She jumps up and down on the cushion of her chubby *******. All the eyeballs bobble up and down. They stick to her hypnotizing ******* like brand new pasties. She repositions and, on her knees, she straddles my hips. I tickle her feet. She feels the totality of all the concentrated attention in the room like 12 hands and 60 fingertips touching and squeezing and caressing and rubbing her most private intimacies all at once. She sounds like a wildcat in heat. Her arms come down; she arches her back; her hands grip the armrests. Her ****, straight up, look like two Tetons with Space Needles. She holds the pose but keeps her hips in motion, riding my right hand. Then she folds forward and ***** my fingers with naked enthusiasm and a ******* while tuning her sweaty Space Needles. Her ******* are like toilet plungers. You could fly flags from them. She's 5'2" and her ******* are 5'3". She could joust two knights at once with her hands tied behind her back. Later, she'll be shy and embarrassed, but now she hides nothing. She ***** my fingers like nobody's watching...and everybody's watching. She puts her **** forward, stretches her torso, arches her back tosses, and tosses her long hair. She searches every face, looking for deep eye contact, and finds it in almost everyone. Her temperature is nuclear. She sweats like a glass of iced tea on a hot, humid day. It is a hot, humid day. Her hot, hormonal stank thickens the atmosphere in the small room like the heavy aroma of concupiscent flowers. The pleasure dominates her. She comes comes comes to the ******. She loses all control. She moans loudly and labors, looks into the audience (her face in a free fall), leans back into me, and gushes like her water just broke. She has the greatest, longest, strongest, wettest, craziest ******* ****** of all time in front of an audience of embarrassed couples.
And then it's over. The spell is broken. She goes limp. We wrap a towel around her nakedness, and we lay there while the watchers dissemble to go **** and fantasize about this shy, lovely woman with the naked face and dangerous ******* and assertive ******* and succulent ******. She laughs a little and cries a little, and she thanks me over and over. Her temperature comes down for hours, and when all is said and done, she cannot stop smiling.
Whenever she remembers it, she blushes a beet-red blush. But she savors the memory. Her memory of it is excellent and accurate and very detailed. We still see these same friends, and they're still good friends. And they remember it just as well. She'll never live it down, and she doesn't want to. She takes playful teasing about it with equal parts grace and blushful embarrassment. And she loves it. Her ******* come up in every conversation, and if no one else mentions them, I do. She's good and true and faithful, my gorgeous, beautiful, lovely, hot-as-**** wife. She's good and sweet and kind and shy and humble; and she had the greatest ****** of all time in front of an audience of friends who know exactly what she looks like ***-naked, back to front, hanging **** to open *******, writhing and thrusting and ******* in ecstasy, with a totally, completely, absolutely unmasked ****** face. They know the sound of her ****** when it's soaking wet and and full of fingers. They know the taste and smell of her body odor when she's having a very sweaty, full-throttled ****** in a small, hot, humid room. They know the color of her sparkling ******* when it's wet with sweat. They know the hardness of her diamond ******* when she's at the peak of a shattering ******. They know the length and look of her perineum, and where exactly the little mole is. She's the only friend for whom this is true. She's not a pornstar. She's otherwise anonymous. She wants, needs, and loves my **** alone. We make love a lot, and we **** a lot, and we love ******* each other...a lot. We live happily ever after. The end.
Do you remember, Sofie? You remember. How are your *******? You're blushing, Sofie.
