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One Month

He in his, she in hers, the ouch of them
"One Month"

by Smutwriter
Copyright July 2010

They’d bought them, one for each other, as little anniversary presents. Not really much of an anniversary, one month, but what a month it had been.

In his apartment he held his out at arm’s length, stretched between forefinger tips. He grinned; there was nothing of it.

Two floors down she hung hers from a finger and gazed in surprise at its smallness.

His was small too and a vivid electric blue and he pictured her in hers.

Hers was an iridescent green, the colour of a mallard’s head and she pictured him in his.

Naked, he stepped carefully, awkwardly into his and worked it up his thighs. Just working his genitals into the pouch was erotic and his cock began to stir.

Naked, she stepped into hers. It was smaller by far than any pair of panties she’d ever owned.

With the narrow strap worked between his buttocks he was amazed at how erotic they were. He pictured her with hers pulled up tight and invading her. His cock was, by now, all but fully erect and the fabric could barely contain him. He closed his eyes, imagining, imagining her.

The sense of invasion, of trespass between the cheeks of her ass was exquisite. She took a few steps just to see how it felt. It felt like a probing, poking, stroking something. It felt unutterably sexy. She felt unutterably sexy, and horny. Arousal surged through her.

The fabric was oddly cool. It stretched, tightly moulding his balls into a firm package. His rigid erection strained upwards, seeking escape from under the elastic waistband. He looked good in the mirror, very good he thought. A nearly black spot formed as he leaked precum.

She moved to the dressing table and picked up a dark red lipstick and began colouring her nipples and their surrounds. She’d never done it before and it seemed deliciously wicked. It felt deliciously sexy too as her nipples were pulled this way and that. They erected alarmingly. The pussy mound in the mirror showed every contour of her through the glossy skin of the thong. Stray, escaping, copper curls glistened. He’d begged her not to shave or even trim her bush.

He pictured her puffy-lipped pussy outlined by the tight-stretched fabric. He wondered if she felt as violated by the strap between her legs as he did. He reached behind and pulled his tighter, wishing he could tease her and pull hers into her. The need to free his cock, to stroke it was all but overwhelming.

Her pussy yearned for her fingers and she yearned to finger it. She must be getting wet. She pulled up on the waistband and peered into the mirror. Yes, there was a wet patch, dark, almost black, betraying her arousal. Her nipples, dark red now and huge told the same story. Big and ugly she thought; big and beautiful he always told her, when he suckled at them. Her vagina clenched and she tightened her thighs in reflex.

He crossed the room and reached for the phone.

Her phone rang.

“Your place or mine?”

“I’ll come to you.”

‘I’ll come before you get here if I’m not careful,’ he thought.

She put on a little, black, flared skirt and white cotton blouse and padded, barefoot, to the door. She started along the corridor. The tightness of the thong between her legs and her aroused state made walking a new experience. She had to stop twice just to get control of herself.

He waited for her. He tried to imagine how she’d look in hers. What would she think of him in his? The telltale stain at the head of his cock was bigger.

Two flights of twelve, she managed the first six steps non-stop but then she had to pause. God, how did people wear these things all day? He’d bought medium when perhaps large would have been better. She reached under the skirt. The silly scrap of cloth was working deep into her slit, cutting her wickedly in half. She spread the fabric again to cover her pussy. How wet she was.

Above her he waited, running fingers over his tight clad balls and the hard ridge that was his leaking cock. He wished she’d hurry.

She worked her way slowly upward, one cautious step at a time. Her sensitive, little, puckered anus was being abused by the strip of nylon stretched tight across it. It didn’t hurt, not quite; it just added to the sum of sweet tortures between her legs.

‘Hurry, hurry sweet girl!’ He peeled the edge of the thong down exposing his cockhead. Precum glistened in the little slit. With a cautious finger tip he spread it round and round making his whole groin tense as he teased himself. He was daring himself to come, daring his body to let go. Praying it wouldn’t. ‘Hurry!’

Just a few yards away she clung onto the stair rail, trying to save the orgasm for him. So this was a thong, what cunning cruelty. She’d never wear another; she’d never wear anything else.

He moved to the door and put his eye to the peephole.

She pushed reached the top step and began to move towards his door knowing he’d be watching.

There she was, moving awkwardly, almost painfully, towards his door.

She gasped as the fabric slipped a little deeper into her. She relished each tormenting stride. “I’m coming honey,” she said aloud, “I’m coming.”
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