Soaking the bed

July 24, 2021 (continued)

Dear Diary,

Back from that lecture—barely paid attention, my head was spinning with Maria. Where was I? Oh God, right—her bedroom, me in those double swimsuits, her taste still tingling on my tongue. She didn’t stop there. Maria locked eyes with me, that warm, commanding glint flashing, and lifted her polka-dot dress over her head—slow, deliberate, like she knew I’d drink in every second. Dropped it to the floor, and there she was, this sexy MILF in her light blue one-piece, spandex stretched tight over her curves. Big breasts straining the fabric, nipples poking through, hips flaring wide, that cameltoe so sharp I could see every fold. Her body—mature, soft in all the right places, but toned, powerful—glowed under the bedroom light, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders like silk. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look away—every detail, every inch of her, burned into me. Watching her stand there, so confident, so into this swimsuit thing, flipped a switch—I was soaked, aching, mesmerized.

She stepped closer, close enough I could smell her—chlorine, musk, a hint of perfume— and ran her hands over her own swimsuit, teasing herself, teasing me. “You like it, don’t you?” she purred, voice low, and I nodded, dumb, my mouth dry. She grabbed my wrists, pulled me to the bed, and pushed me down—gentle but firm, her kindness laced with control. Climbed over me, straddling my hips, her swimsuit brushing mine, spandex on spandex, electric. Leaned in, lips grazing my ear, whispering, “Let’s feel it together,” and I was gone—lost in her heat, her weight. She tugged at my straps, adjusting them, then slid her hands down, cupping my ass, squeezing me through the layers. I gasped, bucking up, and she grinned—wicked, knowing—grinding her cunt against my thigh, the fabric slicking up fast.

Then she shifted—swung a leg over, lined us up, and oh fuck, Diary, we scissored right there on her bed. Spandex-clad pussies locked together, rubbing, sliding, the tight Arena and Speedo on me grinding into her light blue suit. She rocked hard, relentless, her clit bumping mine through the fabric, wet and hot and slippery. I grabbed her hips, pulled her closer, ****—days of edging, gooning, all that frustration boiling up. Her moans were soft, throaty, mixing with mine—sharp, needy—our juices soaking through, pooling under us. The bed creaked, the swimsuits squeaked, and I felt every ridge, every stitch rubbing me raw. She leaned back, hair wild, breasts bouncing, and growled, “Let it out,” and I did—couldn’t hold it anymore.

It hit like a fucking explosion—intense, shattering, days of pent-up need erupting all at once. I screamed, loud and broken, my cunt clenching, pulsing, gushing through the spandex. Maria came too—shuddering, gasping, her thighs trembling against mine, a flood of her own mixing with me. We kept grinding, riding it out, waves crashing over us, the bed a sopping mess of sweat and cum. Collapsed, tangled, panting, swimsuits drenched and sticking to us like glue. She laughed, soft and warm, brushed my hair back, and pulled me close—curled me against her, her big breasts soft against my cheek, her heartbeat thumping under the spandex.

Fell asleep like that, wrapped in her, the bed soaked—my juices, hers, a puddle I didn’t care about. Woke up just now to write this, still pressed to her, her arm over me, the room heavy with our scent. Swimsuits still on, sticky, perfect. Most intense thing I’ve ever felt, Diary—nothing’s topped this. Morning’s coming, but I’m not moving yet. Later.