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This is a work of fiction. While some places and events may be inspired by real-world locations and happenings, the characters and plot are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or even places or businesses is purely coincidental.
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It was five o'clock and I was sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a beer and waiting for Sandy.
The radio was on and started playing "Kiss on My List" by Hall & Oates. I didn't even think about it, I just started singing along.
"Because your kiss... your kiss... is on my list..." I mumbled to myself, tapping the side of my glass.
"Because your kiss... your kiss... I can't resist..."
Then I started laughing, realizing this song was gonna be stuck in my head for a while. My mind started to drift, thinking about life before covid, being in the office every day, which I missed. So much had changed, it felt like 2019 was in a different dimension, like a weird Mandela effect.
That's when I heard Sandy's car pull in the driveway. She was home about fifteen minutes early, but it was nothing to be concerned about. Sometimes work is done early, especially in the first week, coming up to speed on the job.
She walked in and bent to take off her shoes. Her ass pushed back as she leaned over, the shorts tightening around her cheeks, and I felt myself stir just watching her. When she stood, her shirt shifted against her chest and I caught a clear outline of her nipples through the fabric. She saw me looking but didn't say a word.
"Well how was day two?" I asked.
I followed Sandy as she walked into the bedroom, already unbuttoning her shirt.
"First, I cannot wait to get into my comfies," she said, unbuttoning her Ralph Lauren shirt and tossing it onto the ottoman that lay at the foot of our bed.
I followed her in, eyes locked on her chest. She reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, letting it fall away, and just like that, her big white tits were out--bouncing slightly as they settled, heavy and soft and fucking perfect.
They practically glowed against the warm bronze of her chest and neck, her cleavage tanned from the sun, dusted with those freckles I loved. That contrast made her tits look even more obscene and big, pale, begging to be grabbed, sucked, used.
All I could think about was sinking my face between them, sucking those thick nipples until she moaned--then pulling out and shooting all over them, watching my cum coat her chest, drip down her creamy skin, and disappear between those massive tits like it belonged there.
"I missed those." I said.
She smirked. "You saw them this morning."
"Yeah, but they've been bouncing around unsupervised all day."
She rolled her eyes. "Good thing I had a bra on, then."
She slid her shorts and thong down and stepped out of it. "I need to use the bathroom. I have to pee."
She turned toward the master bath and grabbed the door handle.
"Unless you want me to pee on your face?" She said flatly, not even looking back.
I smirked. "Maybe."
The door shut behind her, and the fan hummed to life. I stood there for a second, looking at the pile of clothes she left on the floor. "I heard that! You are disgusting! I am not peeing on you!"
Then I chuckled.
"Damn," I muttered.
I glanced down at the pile of clothes she left on the floor--her linen shorts and that little black thong, twisted together like she'd peeled them off in a hurry.
At first, I didn't think much of it. But then I saw the crotch of the thong.
It was soaked.
Not just a little damp. I'm talking a thick puddle of grool. Translucent slime clinging to the fabric, streaked and smeared straight through the gusset like she'd been dripping all day. Like her pussy had been leaking nonstop since she walked out the door this morning.
I crouched down and picked them up, holding the thong by the waistband. The cotton was still warm from her body. I turned it slightly, looking at how far the wetness had spread, which was almost to the seam.
"Fuuuck," I whispered.
I couldn't help it. I brought the fabric closer to my face.
The scent hit me immediately. Sharp. Tangy. Pussy and ass, raw and layered. Underneath, there was that faint, dry-sweet note I always caught when she was especially turned on--almost like pencil shavings. Her scent. Clean sweat. A full day's worth of slick grinding against that little strip of fabric.
I wonder if she knew there was an actual thick puddle of grool in the gusset. As I held them up, gravity tried to pull the grool down and it start to move slowly like molasses.
My cock stirred hard in my shorts. Just holding them was enough to make me throb.
"You must've been fucking dripping at work," I muttered under my breath.
The idea hit me all at once, my wife was probably watching them shoot a porn scene, trying to act professional while her pussy soaked through her thong. Her tits bouncing under that blouse. Her ass flexing every time she stood up. Maybe someone flirted with her. Maybe nobody did. Either way, this thong had all the evidence.
I stood, still holding them, my cock straining against the fabric of my waistband. And the bathroom fan kept humming behind the closed door.
I held the thong closer again, more deliberately this time, and pressed the gusset to my face. The smell was even stronger now. That raw, musky scent that only came from the place just beneath her pussy. The scent of her asshole. My cock throbbed.
I dragged the damp strip under the bridge of my nose, then inhaled again, deeper. My eyes fluttered closed.
I smiled, then a naughty thought! I stuck out my tongue.
At first, I just touched the fabric lightly, right into that thick puddle of pussy juice. The taste was fucking horny. Salty, clean and dirty all at once. I flicked it again, this time dragging my tongue up the gusset slowly, letting her flavor coat my mouth. There was so much grool I could not believe it.
If I turned the thong upside down, the grool would plop into a puddle on the floor.
"Fuck me," I muttered under my breath.
