Shivani Fucked In Front Of Her Husband Uday
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The Next Day free porn video
It is over a day since I said goodbye. Twenty-six hours to be precise.
For all of her talk about fragrance sensitivity, it is now me talking about scent.
I can still smell her on me. I know that can't be happening. I showered this morning, washing off the remains of yesterday. Washing off the touch, the embrace, the kisses. Washing off the outward connections made over the course of a day. I know it can't be happening.
Yet I can still smell her on me. I close my eyes and inhale and she is sitting next to me. I open my eyes and it...she...is still there next to me. With every breath, I take in the oxygen that sustains my life, and I take in the fragrance that sustains my imagination.
I imagine again the softness of her lips as she gives me two tentative and gentle kisses on my cheek.
I imagine again the feel of her arms around my body, as she holds me tightly against her.
I imagine again the taste of her kiss. The kiss that betrays the soul within and its intent. The kiss that cannot possibly be our first kiss, on the first day we have met face to face.
I can still smell her on me. Does she know what her fragrance did to me yesterday? Could she possibly know? It is still winter, in spite of the calendar date saying it is spring. In the chill of a Canadian spring, we both dress for winter. Layers to keep out the cold, but layers that also shield ourselves from curious eyes.
Could she possibly see what her fragrance did to me yesterday? And now, across the distance between us, could she possibly know what her fragrance does to me now, as I lie here alone, contemplating? Remembering? Imagining?
Could she see the flow of blood throughout my body? The flush in my cheeks as I inhaled her fragrance? The flow to my sex, the flow filling the vessels and arteries and capillaries, bringing a turgid rise beneath the layers of my Canadian winter armour?
Does she suspect? She must. A tour of photographs accompanied by her fragrance. Yes, I know that was art, and it was more than a decade and a half ago, but her naked form still aroused my imagination. It aroused my desire, which was already in a state of shock and awe. How does she compress time, to make me feel four dates in the space of a few hours on what is really our first date? How does she make time move as she wills it? She turns a closet into a root cellar, the inside of a closet into a farm house from a century earlier? How does she make time stand still, a three hour date turning into a full day, and yet each minute containing a lifetime? She commands time, it seems. She possesses magic.
Does her magic allow her to see through my armour? Does it penetrate all of my defences? Can she see my rising sex, primed and waiting, straining against all boundaries and yet bound to be held in check? It was not the time. It was not the time to remove my armour.
But time is fluid and the fragrance that ought to be dissipated, washed away, it yet remains. It persists in the face of time, and I can still smell her on me.
Naked, our bodies would touch and connect, and her scent would be upon me. Then I could understand today, still smelling her freshness and arousal upon me and in my nostrils. But we were not naked and all of the clothes I wore, they are elsewhere, and I wear a fresh set of armour today, not imbued with her scent. And my skin was cleansed of my experience. So how do I explain?
Her scent lingers still, and my flesh once again becomes firm. Can she sense that from where she is? Does she too imagine the flesh, my flesh or her own, as part of this twisting of time, where yesterday becomes today, and where past becomes present and future? Does she control time to that extent, where she can place herself beside me, where our bodies once again touch, but this time with no armour and with no boundaries?
Can she feel my hardness in her own hand, as I now take it within mine? Can she feel the pulse of desire throbbing as she cradles it in her palm and then engulfs it in her fist? Does she feel the resoluteness of my sex as she strokes it, seeing the colour change as the blood fills it and darkens the flesh into a solid reminder of the fluid nature of our experiences?
Does she touch her own flesh as she imagines mine? As I inhale and recall her scent, does she too smell her own arousal? Does she imagine my hand and recall as I touched her own armour, knowing what lay beneath? Does she imagine me breaching her boundaries and touching the flesh without armour, touching the softness of her own sex?
I can still smell her upon me. But I imagine myself lowering my face to her sex, and inhaling her arousal, with no doubts remaining that the gentle fragrance is one that emanates from within her flesh, and not from a bottle used to wash or to moisturize. Knowing that it is not lavender or citrus, but the feral scent of arousal.
Does she feel me now, the arousal of my own flesh as I imagine my lips parting, and my tongue emerging so as to penetrate her fleshy folds? Does she feel me as I taste her arousal, the moisture on my tongue now indistinguishable from the moisture between her own vulva? Does she know that there is a direct conduit between my tongue and my memory, and once I taste her, once her taste becomes part of me, I will never forget? I will never be able to taste again, without drawing from my memory her taste?
Her fragrance is still with me, and I imagine her sex providing me with a new fragrance, so directly to me as I part her vulva with my tongue and as my nose and face are buried in her, between her, upon her. I inhale and I take in life, not mere oxygen, but life, made up of equal parts desire and respect. It takes respect to submit so completely to her pleasure, to immerse myself so deeply in her most private of places. She is not a fortress to be breached, but a shelter in which to be brought inside. She is not a battle or a conquest, but she is a gift, divine, and she is a table, a meal, to which I must be invited.
I savour her as I inhale her. Her fragrance is with me still, even though that cannot be possible. But it is, and as I touch my own flesh, I know that I am inhaling her and I am savouring her. She is not only the master of time, but of place, and I am transported from my solitary remembrances to a joinder of experience, with her, beside her and within her.
I am with her. I know it. I can feel it. That is her hand upon my erect flesh, stroking me. It is not my hand. And that is my tongue now exploring her moist and hidden recesses, not her own hand or some object penetrating her. That is my mouth, those are my lips sucking her labia into my mouth, caressing them with my tongue. That is my tongue drawing designs upon her clitoris, writing letter by letter upon it to spell out my silent messages to her. I have no need for words as my tongue writes my story upon her body.
She is magic, I know it, she must be. There is no other explanation. As I release my climax upon my belly, I know I can feel her tongue, tasting me as it draws so slowly and gently across my flesh. I can feel her lips surround the shaft as she tastes me and extracts the last drops of my climax and she savours me in the same way I have savoured her. Magic, I know it. How else has she tasted me? Touched me? Stroked me?
How else has she opened herself up to me? How else have I felt her body shudder as my tongue danced within her wet folds, as my tongue danced upon her own firm nub, as my lips drew her flesh into my own mouth and as my senses drank in all of her arousal? How else did I feel her grow very still, and how else did I hear her moan in that moment of release?
The light grows dim outside my window. Soon the sun will set and I will be alone in darkness. Even the voices I hear around me will fade away. Even the sights outside my window will blend into stillness. All will be gone except for me.
And yet she is not gone, and her fragrance is still within my nostrils, her taste still upon my lips. Her kiss is a gentle sweetness that lingers in my lips and nourishes me. Her fragrance fills my lungs and my breathing is steady and calm because of that vital scent.
Does she know any of this? Does her magic let her see me now, lying naked with my arousal still lingering after my climax? Does she know that as we sat beside one another yesterday, she brought life to me? Does she know that she brought life to my sex and made the soft flesh rise beneath my armour, becoming erect and firm? Does she know that with her words, she was stroking me as we sat together? Does she know that with her fragrance, she was caressing my flesh? Touching my flesh? Imbuing my flesh with her own sex?
We shared many stories as we sat together yesterday. Does she know that there are still many stories yet to be told, yet to be written, and that the words are floating in the air, floating upon a gentle fragrance that lingers in my own atmosphere? Does she know whether these stories are true or whether they are fiction, creations of imagination alone?
Does she care one way or the other, or does she know, as do I, that in the heart, and in the body, her fragrance blurs the boundaries between what was and what may one day be, and the boundaries between memory and desire?
For all of her talk about fragrance sensitivity, it is now me talking about scent.
I can still smell her on me. I know that can't be happening. I showered this morning, washing off the remains of yesterday. Washing off the touch, the embrace, the kisses. Washing off the outward connections made over the course of a day. I know it can't be happening.
Yet I can still smell her on me. I close my eyes and inhale and she is sitting next to me. I open my eyes and it...she...is still there next to me. With every breath, I take in the oxygen that sustains my life, and I take in the fragrance that sustains my imagination.
I imagine again the softness of her lips as she gives me two tentative and gentle kisses on my cheek.
I imagine again the feel of her arms around my body, as she holds me tightly against her.
I imagine again the taste of her kiss. The kiss that betrays the soul within and its intent. The kiss that cannot possibly be our first kiss, on the first day we have met face to face.
I can still smell her on me. Does she know what her fragrance did to me yesterday? Could she possibly know? It is still winter, in spite of the calendar date saying it is spring. In the chill of a Canadian spring, we both dress for winter. Layers to keep out the cold, but layers that also shield ourselves from curious eyes.
Could she possibly see what her fragrance did to me yesterday? And now, across the distance between us, could she possibly know what her fragrance does to me now, as I lie here alone, contemplating? Remembering? Imagining?
Could she see the flow of blood throughout my body? The flush in my cheeks as I inhaled her fragrance? The flow to my sex, the flow filling the vessels and arteries and capillaries, bringing a turgid rise beneath the layers of my Canadian winter armour?
Does she suspect? She must. A tour of photographs accompanied by her fragrance. Yes, I know that was art, and it was more than a decade and a half ago, but her naked form still aroused my imagination. It aroused my desire, which was already in a state of shock and awe. How does she compress time, to make me feel four dates in the space of a few hours on what is really our first date? How does she make time move as she wills it? She turns a closet into a root cellar, the inside of a closet into a farm house from a century earlier? How does she make time stand still, a three hour date turning into a full day, and yet each minute containing a lifetime? She commands time, it seems. She possesses magic.
Does her magic allow her to see through my armour? Does it penetrate all of my defences? Can she see my rising sex, primed and waiting, straining against all boundaries and yet bound to be held in check? It was not the time. It was not the time to remove my armour.
But time is fluid and the fragrance that ought to be dissipated, washed away, it yet remains. It persists in the face of time, and I can still smell her on me.
Naked, our bodies would touch and connect, and her scent would be upon me. Then I could understand today, still smelling her freshness and arousal upon me and in my nostrils. But we were not naked and all of the clothes I wore, they are elsewhere, and I wear a fresh set of armour today, not imbued with her scent. And my skin was cleansed of my experience. So how do I explain?
Her scent lingers still, and my flesh once again becomes firm. Can she sense that from where she is? Does she too imagine the flesh, my flesh or her own, as part of this twisting of time, where yesterday becomes today, and where past becomes present and future? Does she control time to that extent, where she can place herself beside me, where our bodies once again touch, but this time with no armour and with no boundaries?
Can she feel my hardness in her own hand, as I now take it within mine? Can she feel the pulse of desire throbbing as she cradles it in her palm and then engulfs it in her fist? Does she feel the resoluteness of my sex as she strokes it, seeing the colour change as the blood fills it and darkens the flesh into a solid reminder of the fluid nature of our experiences?
Does she touch her own flesh as she imagines mine? As I inhale and recall her scent, does she too smell her own arousal? Does she imagine my hand and recall as I touched her own armour, knowing what lay beneath? Does she imagine me breaching her boundaries and touching the flesh without armour, touching the softness of her own sex?
I can still smell her upon me. But I imagine myself lowering my face to her sex, and inhaling her arousal, with no doubts remaining that the gentle fragrance is one that emanates from within her flesh, and not from a bottle used to wash or to moisturize. Knowing that it is not lavender or citrus, but the feral scent of arousal.
Does she feel me now, the arousal of my own flesh as I imagine my lips parting, and my tongue emerging so as to penetrate her fleshy folds? Does she feel me as I taste her arousal, the moisture on my tongue now indistinguishable from the moisture between her own vulva? Does she know that there is a direct conduit between my tongue and my memory, and once I taste her, once her taste becomes part of me, I will never forget? I will never be able to taste again, without drawing from my memory her taste?
Her fragrance is still with me, and I imagine her sex providing me with a new fragrance, so directly to me as I part her vulva with my tongue and as my nose and face are buried in her, between her, upon her. I inhale and I take in life, not mere oxygen, but life, made up of equal parts desire and respect. It takes respect to submit so completely to her pleasure, to immerse myself so deeply in her most private of places. She is not a fortress to be breached, but a shelter in which to be brought inside. She is not a battle or a conquest, but she is a gift, divine, and she is a table, a meal, to which I must be invited.
I savour her as I inhale her. Her fragrance is with me still, even though that cannot be possible. But it is, and as I touch my own flesh, I know that I am inhaling her and I am savouring her. She is not only the master of time, but of place, and I am transported from my solitary remembrances to a joinder of experience, with her, beside her and within her.
I am with her. I know it. I can feel it. That is her hand upon my erect flesh, stroking me. It is not my hand. And that is my tongue now exploring her moist and hidden recesses, not her own hand or some object penetrating her. That is my mouth, those are my lips sucking her labia into my mouth, caressing them with my tongue. That is my tongue drawing designs upon her clitoris, writing letter by letter upon it to spell out my silent messages to her. I have no need for words as my tongue writes my story upon her body.
She is magic, I know it, she must be. There is no other explanation. As I release my climax upon my belly, I know I can feel her tongue, tasting me as it draws so slowly and gently across my flesh. I can feel her lips surround the shaft as she tastes me and extracts the last drops of my climax and she savours me in the same way I have savoured her. Magic, I know it. How else has she tasted me? Touched me? Stroked me?
How else has she opened herself up to me? How else have I felt her body shudder as my tongue danced within her wet folds, as my tongue danced upon her own firm nub, as my lips drew her flesh into my own mouth and as my senses drank in all of her arousal? How else did I feel her grow very still, and how else did I hear her moan in that moment of release?
The light grows dim outside my window. Soon the sun will set and I will be alone in darkness. Even the voices I hear around me will fade away. Even the sights outside my window will blend into stillness. All will be gone except for me.
And yet she is not gone, and her fragrance is still within my nostrils, her taste still upon my lips. Her kiss is a gentle sweetness that lingers in my lips and nourishes me. Her fragrance fills my lungs and my breathing is steady and calm because of that vital scent.
Does she know any of this? Does her magic let her see me now, lying naked with my arousal still lingering after my climax? Does she know that as we sat beside one another yesterday, she brought life to me? Does she know that she brought life to my sex and made the soft flesh rise beneath my armour, becoming erect and firm? Does she know that with her words, she was stroking me as we sat together? Does she know that with her fragrance, she was caressing my flesh? Touching my flesh? Imbuing my flesh with her own sex?
We shared many stories as we sat together yesterday. Does she know that there are still many stories yet to be told, yet to be written, and that the words are floating in the air, floating upon a gentle fragrance that lingers in my own atmosphere? Does she know whether these stories are true or whether they are fiction, creations of imagination alone?
Does she care one way or the other, or does she know, as do I, that in the heart, and in the body, her fragrance blurs the boundaries between what was and what may one day be, and the boundaries between memory and desire?
Myra
- 11.10.2022
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- Masturbation
