My gorgeous, beautiful, lovely, hot, 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 *****;—a 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. 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 bent over my knees. Her ***** is spread wide open; her pink, wet ***** glistens in the 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 **** that shine like high beams in the rain; and then I pinch and twist and pull her bodacious ******* before I go back down for more 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. We're in a huge, bulky recliner with 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 ***** my fingers with an athletic enthusiasm and a juicy, *******. She's all over my lap and all around it, and up and down my chest. Sometimes her ******* almost swallows my nose, sometimes it's eye to eye with an aroused spectator. She sounds like a wildcat in heat. Later, she'll be shy and embarrassed, but now she hides nothing. She ***** my fingers like nobody's watching...and everybody's watching. Her sweaty, hormonal smell thickens the atmosphere in the small room like the heavy aroma of super-***** flowers. The pleasure is unbearable. It's almost painful. She has lost all control. She moans loudly and labors, looks into the audience (her face in a free fall), leans back into me, and gushes. She gushes and gushes. It's like she peed in my lap. She gushes for days. She has the greatest, longest, strongest, craziest ****** of all time in front of an embarrassed audience.
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 more, and she thanks me over and over. 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 perfect, every moment recorded without error and in the highest definition, the most accurate, acute, and detailed resolution. 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 embarrassment, and then she gets redder than a beet. And she loves it. 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 spasming in ecstasy, with a totally, completely, absolutely unmasked ****** face. 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 **** only. We make love a lot, and we **** a lot, and we love ******* each other. We live happily, joyfully, and ecstatically ever after. The end.
Do you remember, Sofie? You remember. How are your *******?