Chicago Blue Pantiesbyluvsvraj©
His heart skipped, and he could feel it beating more rapidly. There, on their private website, was a beautiful picture of his girlfriend's mons, tastefully enveloped in a pair of baby blue panties. He remembered telling her he loved baby blue, and he wished he had had more time to share his fantasies with her. He could see a dark mound inside. Dark hair? No. She was always clean shaven, it must just be a lovely shadow that outlined the area he wished he could reach out and touch. Just a little touch. A little stroke. With his middle finger, so gently. He could stand behind her, and fondle her so gently as she breathed and kissed his neck. He knew she would love it if he would take his finger and lightly, so delicately, use it to part the lips of her vagina and tease her, and then slowly tease her further.
He liked to look. The panties were not too tight, but not too loose, either. They fit the perfect little pelvic region between her legs like a smooth, comforting glove. His penis felt hot, began to get hard. He could just imagine how amazing it would be to gently put his hand on that sweet, warm pocket. No hair, just a beautiful little mound, warm, sensual, wet within moments. He sighed. He missed her intensely, but they were destined to never meet again. They were not terribly distant; she in Chicago, and he in Cheyenne, but they knew they had to keep their distance. It didn't mean that he couldn't look, however. That was what they shared: He liked to look, she liked to be looked at by him. A fantasy only. In fact, all the longing in the world was not going to put this back together. He was married, she was married, they were both devoted to their families. Yet, they pined. Could it be that the pining was part of the fantasy? He didn't know, all he knew was that he felt drunk with wanting every time he had the most minimal contact with her.
"Must not cross barriers," he muttered to himself, at the same time feeling his throat burning with longing.
How long had it been this time, since their last contact? Over two months, he realized. Another sigh. Eh, it was a sad situation, but life wasn't that bad. His wife was a beautiful person, his ex-girlfriend was comfortable in her life, apart they were doing okay in their lives, handling this secret they shared, that they were still drawn to each other. They managed it in awkward lurches forward and back, mostly back. She had tried to break it off several times at first, and finally begged him to do the heavy lifting because she could not allow herself to contemplate a life without him in some small way. Now he returned to thinking about her pussy, how he would place that whole hand in between her legs, move it gently in a small circle, watch her writhe. He had the strength to make her arousal incredibly erotic, a slow dream.
He had felt such enormous guilt about his marriage that he resolved to part with her permanently, and had managed it for the last two months; first, by de-friending her on Facebook, and then by writing her a note that despite his feelings for her, he would never contact her again. You can't get more final than that. She threw the girlfriend-requisite Hail Mary of opening the door to friendship. Yes, in a perfect world, friendship. But there are some people we cannot be friends with. Oh, certainly, this woman was a good person, but he knew he could not control himself around her. She would behave like a lady, she would do anything he wanted her to do, but that was part of the problem, she might do anything he wanted, and in a moment of weakness, all the trust he had built in his marriage would be devastated; once he was around her, he would not want a lady, he would want a lover who would gently seduce him but then maul him, take him apart, lick him everywhere, put her mouth on every part of him, and he imagined himself throbbing inside her within moments of encountering her again. He was uncertain whether she had the strength to behave like a lady and say "No" to him, and he knew he could not even manage the guilt of being in her presence, knowing how attracted he was to her. So, he would only look.
It had been twenty years since they had last been in physical contact. They were children when they had been together, and as a young boy he had broken up with her. Why stay with one girl in a school full of beautiful girls? He had grown bored with her and wanted to see what life was like out there. So, he broke up with her and found his head turned by several pretty young things. Why then, did his thoughts always return to her? As time went by, memories of why exactly he needed to leave someone out of boredom grew dim and distant, and he began to reflect on her good qualities. She certainly loved him back then.
It seemed that after all these years, also, they shared an unusual hobby: sending each other erotic pictures. "Has this ever happened to other people?," he thought. The mind growing cloudy, and a person being unable to focus on their life and family? Perhaps. Perhaps they were addicted to each other - she certainly believed there was some brain chemistry involved. Although he cut her off from his Facebook site, he told her he would occasionally check the site they had set up for just the two of them. He loved his wife, wanted to be a good husband, and the ex-girlfriend respected him, so although she said she would send him notes on the site, she left him alone for over two months. She sent some letters of pain for the first three or four days, but then stopped corresponding, not even tapering off, wanting to honor his wishes. He could see from her site that she was still talking with friends, participating in life, and he wondered if she thought of him.
And now, this beautiful affirmation, this perfect mons, a glorious place to place his hand, put two fingers, maybe three, so delicious. It was about sex, but it felt loving. She cared enough to put a sweet little cupcake in the window for him to lick his lips over.
His wife was coming into the room. He shut the computer off, and smiled at her. Nothing was going to rock his existence, it was just a private little treat for him. He decided he would wait until he was alone, then open up the site and revisit the sweet little mound. His little sugary confection lived thousands of miles away, and was very involved in her own life. She was a therapist, with a husband who owned an investment firm. Their worlds had nothing to do with one another, and she was far too much of a lady to stalk him. But she didn't mind pursuing him in this harmless little hobby they shared. After all, as she had said, they were, to put it in technical terms, "screwed". They would never be able to physically be together. And that might have ratcheted up the fantasy. After all, on the Internet, all things are possible. Everyone is perfect.
Affairs are always perfect until someone wants more. Even Internet affairs could lead to disaster. In this case, the disaster was only in their hearts, but it was painful enough for him to want to shut it down permanently, and she understood. She seemed - stronger than him, somehow, even though he was in the military, and had a quick mind. But after receiving letters from her during their break-up, he knew it still bothered her greatly when they first reunited and were in heavy contact. It was very difficult for them to have any kind of communication, because they would both get so excited, so hot. He understood, therefore, why he had received this beautiful mons, with no words attached. What can one say?
"You want to have fun, you want to be with me, it is painful for both of us, but I look great, in this moment, and I want you to see me. Someday, you, me, your wife, my husband, God willing, we'll all be in our eighties," she said to him once. "I am happy I look like this now, but I won't some day. You like to look, I like to be looked at."
He imagined her slipping her beautifully smooth fingers underneath the gauzy light blue waist of her panties, slipping down, down, caressing herself, slowly pressing into herself, the spot right where she liked it.
"Oh yes, baby, please do that for me," he mouthed silently to himself. "Press yourself ever so gently. I want you to think of my large hand carefully covering your vagina, your smoothly shaven, perfect little pussy. I do love this. I do want this. Now take your other hand, and tease your nipple, rub it gently for me."
He thought about saying this to her, how he would play with her vagina with his fingers, and then firmly force them into her until she gasped, then turn her toward him and his stiff penis. How her eyes would widen with anticipation. How he would take her to any available piece of furniture, push her gently onto it, and fill her with his hard cock, rocking back and forth in unison with her as he sucked on her breasts. Oh, let me suck those. It was his fantasy, so as he held himself firmly in his hand, he imagined that he already had all his clothes off, and was ready for her and her wet pussy.
He would not reply to her story. He wanted to keep a boundary, keep strong. He wanted to be a decent person. But he was a man. He did want to look. He licked his lips. If he were there, how he would love to tease her, pull his cock out of her and listen to her moan as he kneeled in front of her, his eyes on that gorgeous pussy, thinking about licking her while sticking his middle finger into that lovely little cunt. He would listen to her make a high, soft cry as he slowly used his finger to enter her, gently, in charge, as she shuddered. He would push, slowly, firmly, into the pussy, feel the walls of her vagina as he arched his finger and moved it in a careful circle inside her. The expression on her face would be of someone lost in the moment, almost out of her body. She would grow wetter and hotter by the moment, oh, how she would love it.
He knew she loved to lie on her couch and put her own finger in herself, and hold it there, thinking about him, looking at pictures he had sent. She begged him for pictures of his face. She loved to look at his chest, but his face made her cum like a young colt, bucking and swaying and moaning. Might he put his tongue inside her vagina if he were there? Oh yes. He would flatten it against the perfect line that divided her body from vagina to clitoris, slowly and gently thrill her like a happy little paint roller. He would dip it into her as she begged for more. He imagined her smiling contentedly, legs spreading oh, so gently, inviting him to satisfy himself in her. He loved that she wanted him, after all these years, across all the miles, that she was happy to send him her love and good wishes and tender message of thinking of him in a pair of beautiful baby-blue underwear.
"You said no to him because you are grounded in your self-worth."
Her client was crying as she said this, uncrossing and crossing her fit, tanned legs, her short skirt fluttering as she leaned forward. A slight breeze teased her pussy and excited her as she thought of her ex-boyfriend, even as she sat with her client.
"You are feminine energy, and the feminine does not reach out."
She felt a pang of regret and understanding as she said this. They made another appointment and the client left. She thought about the boyfriend she loved, whom she would never see again. It was July, the month that had loomed during their entire relationship, the month they both knew would represent a long ebb. Unfortunately, now it was more than an ebb, because he had let logic and responsibility take over, like a man should, and realized he needed to focus on his marriage, so he had permanently shut down their communication.
July 1 was the day she was to sign up for a convention in February, and travel to his city for a day or two. She had considered it for weeks, and realized that if she felt so much pain with absolutely no contact, imagine the excruciating nightmare of being within a few miles and the idea of a chance meeting, or worse, a planned one. She feared making a foolish mistake and hurting him or herself. It was an addicted brain wanting this, but it was a heart full of love for both him and for herself, that was not wanting this even more. The true love rather than the fuzzy brain won out, and she decided not to go.
She had reached out in contacting him originally, which was unladylike, felt wrong. She began to think about their time together, and almost involuntarily sighed and began to massage her mons over her panties. She consider that it was hard, even painful, to be the one that doesn't reach out. But all the wrongness and the sadness somehow had turned out positively, she thought as she rubbed herself; she was now able to speak to her clients from a place of knowing, how miserable it can feel to put oneself out there. Amazing, she had the only job in the world that could turn a disastrous affair into an opportunity to bond with clients. There are women out there, there must be, who can have affairs and disrespect their men and go about their business, but she learned she was not among them. Now, she knew. Like she always told clients, not being that narcissistic, that's a good thing. Self-respect, dignity, it felt better than being duplicitous, disconnected.
She thought about the client she had just had, who left in tears and pain over the love she couldn't have, and knew what each week would feel like, because she had just lived it; she would be able to track her in a way that would make her feel she had someone to walk with through the pain. The first week, forget it. The second, third, fourth, still hard. But by 8 1/2, 9 weeks, a person could feel completely different, centered. She was at that place. Almost. It seems like the primary thing her clients concerned themselves with was the state of mind of their ex-lover. She had been there, too, and she could now reflexively re-direct the conversations back to the only topic that mattered - the client and her inner world. She began to massage her vagina more aggressively, although still slowly. She rolled down her panties and with a finger on her other hand, entered herself and began to move back and forth.
She knew that her own reaching out with a story, after months of silence, was a contradiction of the work she did, and that she would have to know exactly why she was doing it, she couldn't just go on feelings. On the other hand, she knew it was not a contradiction, it was experiencing and participating rather than just quoting book knowledge about how one might feel. She decided consciously to reach out, with her story, and then let it sit, see how it felt. Would it feel good to write a story and post it just for him? For a feeling-centered person, only time - letting feelings unfold over a period of months - would tell. She smiled inside, thinking about how disappointing it would be for him to read an erotic story and suddenly have to slog through some girly diatribe. So what, she would be getting back to the good part in a second, as soon as she worked out this part in her mind. She giggled and laughed as she wrote this, thinking about him trying to skim over the boring parts. Now her finger was inside her cunt and wiggling around quickly.
Ah, well. She sighed, because she knew separating was important, necessary. She reflected on her own marriage - how she loved her husband, but fantasized about being with her old boyfriend. How many times had she snuck out of bed to wait for him to appear on Facebook, for long conversations that were sometimes innocent, but other times lovely and dirty and erotic. She missed him, she felt guilty about how they had carried on, but she did not feel regret. She thought of his amazing, muscular shoulders, how he wanted to show her how he did pushups.
"That is a body that has done a lot of pushups," she thought to herself.
Yum. She grew aroused as she thought of him holding his beautiful, smooth, warm cock in his hand, gently rubbing the tip, squeezing it and caressing it, holding it firmly. "Oh baby, I'd like to hold that for you, back and forth, back and forth for you," she whispered. Putting his head back and closing his eyes, concentrating on a picture of her in his mind, letting himself go, cuming. Love it. She licked her lips at the thought. She knew he would never contact her again, but she also knew he would think of her, fantasize about her, daydream about her body. She thought about lying on the floor while he did pushups, each time dipping his tongue into her waiting vagina. How she would be overcome and would gently take his face to her pussy to feed on it. God, that would be fun.
There is a lot of freedom in not having to be that ideal of perfection someone perceives you to be over the Internet. She smiled to herself - yes, that fantasy was hard to maintain, but she looked awfully good today, thin; she had lost four pounds this week from adhering to her diet, her hair gently framed her face, she felt wet between her legs thinking about her absent boyfriend. Life was good. Life with him was amazing, but chaotic, out of balance with a family that had been ignored. Now, everything was back in place, but she still allowed herself to think about his hairy, adorable tummy and chest, the picture he sent to her of jiz all over it - she loved it. She put a finger in her vagina and found it to be completely wet, dripping. She felt complimented by that funny jiz picture. They experienced a madness together, a passion that had to stop, but she was still free to reflect on their nasty, erotic discussions.
She took better care of herself now, making time to be alone to have a dream-like rendezvous with him on her couch more often, his voice in her memory coaching her to rub herself and play with herself in the way he wanted her to remember.
"Now I'll put my finger in your wetness, enter you gently, take it out and lick it, then I'll put two fingers in your wet pussy."
She loved to think about him, she loved to look at his shoulders, hot and wet, the light from a lamp glancing off them and reflecting his hard muscles. The look in his dark eyes asserted a sexuality that made her heart stop, even though she must have looked at the one picture a hundred times. Certainly, she was cheating on her husband when they spoke of having sex together before, but now? Alone, with his pictures and his amazing words, this was just good, clean, fun. She imagined him sitting on top of her, his hardness buried in her vagina, massaging her clitoris with his penis as he thrust into her over and over. And over. Oh, over and over. Lovely. Mesmerizing. Oh. Not much more time, now. Ah, love this. Want this. Even from miles away, from months ago, the thought of him could still bring her to orgasm. She wondered if he would have really found her to be much of a lover. She did love to follow his instructions, putting two fingers inside of herself, then three. Ah. He seemed to have a million great ideas. The fantasy - perfect. But the reality? So much guilt involved, too many people involved. This was better; yes, better.
When he wrote to her and told her he would not contact her again because he didn't want anything to change in his marriage, she was upset, but understood. Life had turned upside down, they had intersected at one of the worst times in her life. Now, with her memories of his words, and his very sexual pictures, life was extremely erotic but not conflictual. She took a photograph of herself in a new pair of baby-blue panties one day, sweet ones with useless buttons strolling from below her belly to her clitoris. She was proud of her body and wanted to compare her waist to previous pictures she had sent. The result looked so lovely that she was dying to send it to him, but wanted to respect his wishes to not have contact. What to do, what to do.
She decided to wait several weeks and then send it, and then wait several months, maybe years, to see how it made her feel, and then use it in her work with clients. Any contact with this man needed to be carefully monitored, but her irrational side allowed her a window that opened up just a crack, enough to let an erotic story and picture slip through. Naughty, naughty. She should probably be punished somehow, perhaps he should shove himself inside her and fuck her for hours until he was satisfied over and over. That would teach her a lesson she'd never forget.