finishing

Tom’s hand moved with a practiced rhythm now, the soft cotton of her discarded panties dragging over his cock in slow, hungry friction.

He could hear her faint breathing as she fastened the clasp of her bra, the whisper of fabric sliding into place over her skin.

In the mirror, she adjusted the straps, her fingers brushing along her collarbone — a touch so simple, but in his mind, it was meant for him. Every motion felt personal, intimate, as if she were unknowingly putting on a private show just for him.

Sarah turned to pull on her blouse, the loose fabric briefly draping open at the front before she buttoned it. Tom’s chest tightened. He knew what was under there — warm, soft, real — and that knowledge pushed him to stroke harder.

She reached for her jeans, stepping into them with a slow roll of her hips as she worked them over her thighs. The denim hugged every curve, and the image of sliding them back

…think about.

His breathing grew ragged, the scent of her still clinging to the panties in his hand. He tightened his grip, stroking faster, feeling the heat coil in his gut.

Sarah bent forward to tug the jeans up fully, her blouse shifting just enough to flash the bare skin of her lower back. The movement was casual, but to Tom it was pure invitation, the kind that made his vision blur at the edges.

She zipped the jeans, then stood in front of the mirror again, tilting her head as she adjusted her hair. The faint clink of jewelry followed — she slipped on the remaining earring and reached for a delicate silver necklace, the chain sliding over her throat.

Tom bit his lip, his body trembling. He wanted to see her tilt her head back, to expose the column of her neck so he could imagine pressing his mouth there, tasting the warmth of her skin. And when she did exactly that — oblivious, just fastening the clasp — he almost lost it.

His hand was a blur now, the panties twisting over the slick head of his cock. Every movement she made was seared into him — the sway of her hips as she stepped to her dresser, the way she smoothed the blouse over her chest with both hands.

She gave herself one last check in the mirror, smiling faintly at her own reflection.

That …hard and fast, shuddering through him before he could think to slow down.

Hot pulses spilled into the soft cotton in his hand, the scent of her mingling with the sharp heat of his release. His knees almost buckled, and he pressed his forehead against the closet door to steady himself, forcing his breathing to stay quiet.

Out in the room, Sarah slipped on a pair of low heels, the faint click of them on the floor somehow sharper in his heightened state. She gathered a small purse from the dresser, still entirely unaware of the way she’d just pushed him over the edge without even knowing it.

Tom watched through the thin crack as she gave herself one last glance in the mirror, adjusting the fall of her hair over one shoulder. Then she headed for the door, humming softly under her breath.

He stayed frozen in the dark closet until her footsteps faded down the hallway, the distant murmur of her voice greeting him — her husband in this world — somewhere near the front door.

Only then did Tom finally let out the low, trembling breath he’d been holding, the damp, warm panties still clenched in his fist like the final proof that this wasn’t some dream.

And somewhere in the mix of guilt and afterglow, a dangerous thought took root:

If I’ve done this so many times before… what’s stopping me from doing more?