The blinds were drawn as he’d said they might be, but peering through the bars of the gate she saw the parcel he’d left for her on the outdoor table, and smiled. Slipping the latch she entered the yard, gathering up the soft plastic bag and it’s contents, holding it carefully. Holding it like it contained priceless china rather than a frayed twenty year old jumper in need of some darning.
Back home she placed it on the dining table, began undertaking several mundane tasks that needed attention, while remaining constantly aware of the parcel’s presence in the room. From time to time a bemused smile played across her face as she thought of her willingness to mend the damage wrought to his jumper. Never domestically inclined, her offer was a measure of how eager she was to render him service.
Eventually she picked up the parcel and took it into the warmth of the lounge room where she had already laid out the materials she needed for the repair work. Wool, darning needles, scissors, a wooden darning mushroom. Seating herself comfortably on the couch she removed the jumper from it’s plastic nest, holding it away from her to appreciate the soft autumnal colours once again.
As she eyed the garment appraisingly, a memory flashed through her brain, of her body being held hard against the rough wool. Of her longing and fear that she had pushed him too far, coupled unexpectedly with his deep sighs of release and comfort, as they undertook their familiar ritual of connection again. It had been a difficult day at the end of a difficult week for her, but she also recalled how her sharp appreciation of his male presence, warmly armoured in his winter clothing, had, incongruously, pierced through these concerns for an instant.
The memory called forth a vivid spark of erotic desire. Groaning, she crushed her face into the jumper, inhaling the scent of his body, riding the coils of energy like she rode the orgasms conjured by her evolving fantasies in which he regularly featured. The smell of him and the texture of the wool against her nose and lips tantalised her. She rubbed the fabric across her face, opened her mouth to taste – cat like – the scent molecules on her tongue.
A thought crossed her mind. She raised her own jumper, hooked the band of her bra above her breasts exposing her nipples, then scoured the flesh with his woollen garment. The movement brought both friction and his scent with it and she bit her lip, imagining his body covering hers. More sparks; earthier, sluttier, flashed between her nipples and her cunt.
Abruptly putting the jumper aside, her fingers sought, then found the waist band of her jeans. She fumbled the button then the zipper, tugging it down urgently, eager to provide access. An aroma of arousal overwhelmed the residual traces of his perfume from the nearby jumper. She slid her hand urgently into the opening of her jeans, into the waistband of her knickers then, down, down into warm split dampness, the hardening stub of flesh. Her fingertips found a receptive silken wetness, and for a fleeting moment she thought of a recent blog post on this very matter, before the circling of her fingertips replaced thought with sensation and fantasy.
She imagined him wearing the jumper, coming to her at last – bare arsed and urgent. His fingers, his tongue pushing into her heat. The fabric of his jumper scraping the soft skin of her raised thighs as he pinned her writhing cunt open, licking, sucking, savoring her salty/ sour flesh. And then, the coloured wool rasping over her naked belly and breasts, as his cock plunged into her quivering cunt…
Some time later her fantasy shuddered to a messy, vocal conclusion, and everyday consciousness began to regain a hold. Looking down she was surprised to notice his autumn-coloured jumper clutched once more against her exposed breasts. Cautiously, she released her grip, lifting it away from her body and out of way of her damp pussy and thighs. She leaned forward, started to ease herself away from the wet spot on the couch. It was only then that she noticed the wooden darning mushroom, slick and redolent with her juices, clutched tightly in her right hand.
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