By Eva St. James
It had been a while, you see. Since I had seen him, my lover. Weeks in fact. So we were, I was, more than ready to dispense with pleasantries. The moment I saw him, I was ready.
I like to tell myself we have a “mature relationship,” one based on common interests, a shared sense of humor, the same outlook on life. And it is true, we do get along famously. We laugh together, never a cross word.
But, when it all comes down to it, its about the sex.
Without the crazy good sex, who knows what we would be. And it doesn’t matter, we do have the crazy good sex. Every time is more intense than the last, and we have wondered where it will lead. Will we one day literally fuck ourselves into some kind of state, dehydration or exhaustion? Screw each other to death?
But it isn’t just me. He is as crazy about me as I am about him. When he came to me that day, after weeks of being apart, he was as happy as I was. And as ready.
Of course we said our hellos. “So glad you’re here, you look great,” that kind of thing, all sincere. But we hadn’t met simply to hang out, to share a drink and a laugh. We had come for the sex. Were desperate to be alone, naked, had talked of nothing else for days.
Like horny teenagers, we say, the way we act toward each other. Hours spent on the phone, whispers from my desk, my kitchen, my bed. Texts during meetings, instant messaging, email. Pictures exchanged, “Here is where I am, this is what I am doing.”
He wants to know what I am wearing.
I didn’t understand it. Of course, it is hardly uncommon, a cliche in fact, to ask “what are you wearing.” He explained he like to have a mental image of me going about my day, or whatever. If I talked to him at night, alone in my bed, he wanted to know that as well. Was I under the blankets, my hair across the pillow? A t-shirt, a night gown? naked?
Which is how he came to find out, one night when we could not force ourselves to hang up the phone, could not stop talking about how strong our desire was, could not stop ourselves from closing our eyes, imagining the person attached to the voice, when we were so needy, desperate, horny, that we had to find relief, I found my hand returning to my crotch, the cotton panties damp, damper, wet.
He kept talking about it, saying he loved it, that he couldn’t get enough of it, “I am totally enthralled with it, I want to just dive into your pussy, it is the juiciest, most beautiful, most delicious pussy in the world.”
Shit, mama didn’t raise no fool, and only a fool would not love this.
On that one night, I told him the truth, that I was wearing panties, white cotton panties. But I didn’t tell him that I was taking a picture of them, my laptop lying on the sheets, the camera pointed between my legs, fingers on the panties, “Look, this is what I’m doing now, this is how you make me feel.”
Thanks to this digital age we live in, he got the picture immediately. He was, to put it mildly, grateful. We both came that night, hundreds of miles apart, each with the other in our heads.
He kept the picture, said he looked at it often. ‘The panty picture” he called it.
When we made plans to meet, he in fact asked me to wear them, the white cotton panties. Said he thought, when looking at the picture, “I have been there, that is mine.” Which, in all honesty, it is, he has staked his claim, left his mark, he has said and done and touched me in ways no one ever has. My pussy is in love with this man.
So wearing the panties seemed like a small thing to ask, in return for the pleasure I knew he would provide me, the absolute joy he gives me in bed. And, as I said, it had been a while, weeks, in fact, since we had been together, and knowing I would see him that day was beyond a turn-on, the sound of his voice on the phone made my tummy flip. Seeing him get out of his car, my heart started pounding, when he kissed me I melted.
Needless to say, the cotton panties became somewhat moist.
In the room, my lover, who is nothing if not considerate and kind, is never hurried or rushed, who makes simply pushing up my skirt an erotic experience, did not remove my clothes piece by piece as he usually does. We stood, kissing, his mouth on my face, my neck, my breasts, his hands found my panties, I heard a catch in his throat.
Yet he did not pull them down, off me. No, his fingers went between my thighs, to the crotch of those panties, the fabric he had looked at, the image he had cum to. He touched the material, rubbed it, stroked my clit through it, pushed it up into my pussy. They got soaked. Then, feeling that I was more than ready for him, he laid me down on the bed, pushed up my skirt, pulled the crotch of the white cotton panties aside, and put his big beautiful dick into me.
It had been a while, and I found myself pulling his body down to me, clutching him with my arms and legs, closer, deeper, oh yes, yesyesyes. He was, as always, perfect, pushing into me, holding it there, then out to plunge deeper. I could feel it, his dick twitching inside me, and when he said my name, I came so hard it took my breath.
He did, a bit. You see, this man is a very disciplined lover. He can control himself in a way that enables him to do that, come just a little, without losing control. He is very good to me in this way, it is what he did that day. He came in me, yet remained hard, ready to make love to me for hours.
But, just then, right after I came for the first time that day, after he gave me just a bit of himself, when my cunt was filled with this, his juices as well as mine, he pulled himself out of me, lay down beside me. He kissed me, put his arms around me, held me close to him.
He took my clothes off, tenderly kissed the skin he exposed. My blouse, my bra, skirt, leaving the white cotton panties. Ever so gently, as he looked into my eyes, he touched me through the material. I was tender, sensitive, oozing down onto the bed, literally dripping sex. He laid his hand hand on the crotch, cupped my pussy, the fabric covered me, absorbing that wetness from our fucking, it was soaked through.
We finished undressing and made love throughout the day, every which way imaginable, doing everything we could think of. He is quite imaginative, my lover, he has strength and gentleness and stamina. He has a sex drive that matches my own, our bodies seem made for each other, as if there we remember each other from a past life, we fit perfectly. We have the sex you fantasize about, intense and satisfying, yet he is always ready for more.
It is almost religious good.
And as it had been a while, and we did not know when it would happen again, we appreciated it. We smiled and laughed and talked, and afterward, as we were reluctantly getting dressed, he told me. Explained why he wanted me to wear the white cotton panties.
“These are mine,” he said when he picked them up. He held them to his face, closed his eyes and smiled.
I could have crawled on top of him, again, then and there. Of course I gave them to him, how could I refuse? Who would not fall in love with the idea that someone loves your pussy so much they want your panties, that he purposely soaked them through with your wetness? There is no way I could deny him. It was so sexual it was primal, as if he had marked his territory, was creating a map, a memory that would lead him back to me, to this.
And so now, late at night, when we are both alone and far apart, he has them. Sometimes, when I call just to hear his voice, he laughs softly, “you caught me with the panties.” It never fails to turn me on, I am with him, in his hands.
It has been a while, again, since I have been with my beautiful lover. It will be a bit longer still before I see him, hold him, taste his skin, kiss his mouth, stroke his back and his legs and his belly. I don’t know when I will put his dick in my mouth, or how long it will be before I feel his breath on my throat. But, until then, I know he thinks of me, I am remembered, because he has a keepsake, a talisman, that brings him back here, inside me.
He has my white cotton panties.