She Perfumed Her Underwear Before Giving It to Me

I got home still with my pulse racing, as if my body still couldn’t quite believe what had happened a little while earlier. I left the car keys in the little drawer by the entrance, next to the bunch for the building door and a couple of loose coins, and hung my jacket on the coat rack. It was an automatic gesture, one I did every night, but that night my hands knew they weren’t handling just any routine.

In the bag I had the new shirt I’d bought for myself that afternoon, still with the tag on. And next to the shirt, wrapped almost discreetly, the panties of that woman from the cinema. I like to wash newly bought clothes before wearing them, so I took the bag straight to the laundry room. The shirt, in any case, wasn’t going to put itself into the drum.

I took the shirt out first, ripped off the tag, and left it on the shelf. Then I reached in and brushed the fine fabric of her garment. I took it out slowly, almost respectfully, and stood there for a moment in silence, with that thing in my hands.

I looked at them again under the white light of the laundry room. They were a dark blue, almost navy, with a fabric so sheer both front and back. They weren’t small; she wasn’t a petite woman either. But what caught my attention were the marks: some whitish rings and a few yellowish tones on the front, right where the fabric had been stuck to her cunt all afternoon. It was the trace of everything she’d let out, of how wet she’d gotten even before it had really started. An entire map of her arousal drawn across the cloth.

I’d never had a pair of panties like that in front of me. I mean, like that, to look at them calmly and understand what I had between my fingers. And I admit that simply holding them took me straight back to the dark movie theater, to her hand searching for mine on the armrest, to the way she looked ahead as if something on the screen were happening that was really happening between our legs.

I didn’t make it up. It happened. And what I’ve got in my hand proves it.

My body started reacting before my head did. I felt it down low, that first warm sign that tells you what’s coming, my cock pushing against my pants, growing thicker little by little.

I brought them to my nose almost without thinking. Truth was, they didn’t give off a smell I could clearly identify with discharge, or with that sex smell a woman has when she gets properly wet. What surprised me was something else: they smelled of perfume. A sweet, dense perfume, exactly the same one I’d noticed when she came back from the cinema bathroom and sat down beside me again.

It took me a second to understand it, and when I did, I smiled to myself right there, standing still.

She perfumed them. In the bathroom. Before giving them to me.

She’d planned it. She knew perfectly well she was going to leave me that garment and, more than that, that I was going to smell it at some point that night. That’s why she’d bothered to spritz them, to turn a used thing into some kind of perfumed gift meant for me. How clever she’d been. I stood there shaking my head, half incredulous, with a mix of admiration and horniness rising slowly through me.

I’d run into her at the last showing, the one almost nobody picks on a weekday. The theater was practically empty and she sat two seats away from mine, even though there was an entire row free. It wasn’t a coincidence. Ten minutes into the film, without looking at me, she put her bag on the floor and moved her hand to the armrest we shared.

I wasn’t breathing. I had my eyes fixed on the screen, not understanding a single scene, paying attention only to those fingers that were coming toward mine millimeter by millimeter. When they finally touched, neither of us pulled away. She turned her hand slowly, intertwined her fingers with mine, and squeezed, as if telling me she knew exactly what she was doing and wasn’t planning to stop.

What happened after that in that dim light was far more than anyone would expect from a movie seat. She yanked my hand down to put it between her thighs, over her skirt, and made me press. Right there I could feel the wet heat coming out of her cunt even through the fabric. I pushed my fingers upward and she spread her legs wider, shifting slightly in the seat to make room for me. I lifted her skirt to her waist without any resistance from her. When I reached her panties I found out how soaked they were: the fabric glued to her, dripping with fluid, a warm puddle in her crotch.

I pulled the elastic aside with two fingers and shoved them in all at once. She was so wet they went all the way in to the knuckles with the slightest resistance. She bit her fist so she wouldn’t cry out and her cunt tightened around my fingers with a force I hadn’t expected. I started pumping her right there, in silence, listening to the wet noise her juices made each time I pulled out and pushed back in. With my thumb I hunted for her clit, found it swollen and hard like a little button, and circled it while I kept fucking her with two fingers.

—Deeper —she asked me in my ear, her voice broken, without raising it even a millimeter—. Put them all the way in.

I slid in a third finger. A small moan escaped her, muffled against my shoulder, biting my shirt. With her other hand she reached for the bulge over my pants, squeezed my cock hard, and without asking permission she pulled down my zipper and took it out there, in the middle of the seat. She wrapped her fingers around me, still cold, and started jerking me slowly, setting a long rhythm, squeezing the skin up and down, uncovering my glans and covering it again. I kept fingering her and she kept stroking me, both of us staring ahead as if on the screen we were watching something more than this dark little match we were playing.

At one point she leaned in, bent down toward my lap with her face pressed to my groin, and took me into her mouth. I don’t know how she managed so nobody saw us, but she started sucking me with the calm of an old expert, taking my cock all the way in, sucking hard on the way up, circling the tip with her tongue every time she got to the top. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t make a sound. I tangled my hand in her hair and let her take control. When she felt I was about to come, she pulled away abruptly, straightened up, and squeezed the base with two fingers to cut my orgasm off cold.

—Not yet —she whispered, lips shining—. Hold it in.

She grabbed my cock again and started jerking me off once more, very slowly, while I buried three fingers in her cunt and searched for the spot inside with my fingertips. I felt her trembling all over. When she came, she did it quietly, pressing herself into the backrest, squeezing her thighs against my hand, soaking my palm all the way to the wrist. She stayed like that for a long while, pulsing around my fingers, breathing through her mouth without making a sound.

Before leaving, that quick gesture under the coat, the folded panties she put in my hand without saying anything, pulled out from under her skirt with a skill only someone who had already planned it would have, and a half-smile.

Still holding the panties, with the full memory of that afternoon’s fucking, what had been ignited in me finally finished growing. My cock went rigid in my pants, the tip pushing at the fabric, making a bulge. I ran my hand over it several times, confirming the obvious, keeping it there, stretching that tension out without haste.

—What if I jerk off? —I said in a low voice, to no one.

I answered myself, also in a low voice.

—No. I’m going to jerk off.

There was an old chair in a corner of the room, one of those you sit on to tie your shoes. I pulled it over, sat down, and lowered my pants to my knees. Then I lowered my briefs too and my cock sprang out all at once, cracking against my stomach. It wasn’t as hard as it had been in the dark of the movie theater, when she had had it in her mouth. That had been something else, brutal, the kind of thing that doesn’t repeat easily. Now it was a bit softer, more manageable, and I looked at the bright side: that way I’d feel every stroke in more detail.

I brought my hand to my mouth, built up a good mouthful of saliva, and spat it straight onto the glans. It ran slowly down the whole length. I smeared it over the tip so it would glide properly, closed my fist around it, and gave the first long stroke, from base to head, squeezing hard. A shiver ran through me from my balls to my navel.

With my other hand I held the panties, bringing them back to my nose. I breathed in deeply. Her perfume filled my head again, and beneath the perfume, there, if I breathed deeper, another smell appeared, the one I had been looking for: a base note of cunt, of wet woman, of what she had let out all afternoon in that seat. There it was. Hidden but present. I started moving faster.

Since I’m not circumcised, the skin covers the glans, so I could see perfectly how it was uncovered and hidden again with every movement. I kept a steady rhythm, my hand tightly closed at the base, moving up slowly until the head appeared shiny and purple, and sliding down again with my palm pressed firmly against it. Every so often I sped up for a couple of strokes and then slowed down again. Each time I felt myself go up another degree, I pressed the cloth to my nose and inhaled hard, as if I wanted to pull the whole memory inside me.

On a couple of occasions I even stuck out the tip of my tongue and brushed the fabric to feel its texture. I searched with my tongue for the most marked area, the yellowish rings, and tasted the salty flavor of dried discharge beneath the perfume. A gasp escaped me. I closed my eyes and imagined that the fabric was still on her, that I was licking it over the soaked cunt pulsing against my mouth. My cock gave a hard jerk, went rock hard, the veins perfectly outlined, the glans swollen and purple. I had to stop to spit again on my hand and keep going with a properly slick grip.

I kept going. The cloth pressed against my face, my hand setting a tighter, more urgent rhythm, squeezing under the head on each upward stroke, right where it’s felt the most. I closed my eyes and stopped looking at the garment so I could see her instead: her profile lit by the screen, the way she bit her lip when the tension rose, the moment she leaned in and took my cock into her mouth in the dark, the long silent blowjob, her fingers squeezing the base when I was already about to come. I imagined her kneeling in front of me right there, in that room, with that same mouth around my cock, taking me all the way in, looking up at me from below.

I sped up my hand. With the other I reached down and grabbed my balls, squeezing them gently, tugging them downward to delay it a little. I brought the panties back to my nose, inhaled one last time, and then I couldn’t hold on anymore. When I felt it starting to rise, that tingling that begins down below, in the perineum, and gives you a few seconds’ warning, that heat climbing up from your balls and stabbing into the tip, I lowered the panties and laid them right underneath, spread open on my thighs. I wanted everything to land exactly over the marks she’d left that afternoon. For my load to mix with her discharge. For what was mine to end up on top of what was hers.

The first blast came with a crack, a thick jet that shot out and landed full on the blue fabric. The second fell right on top. The third was weaker but just as white, a dense thread that ran down my knuckles and onto the panties. I kept jerking myself off more slowly, milking out every drop, watching the blue cloth fill up with white, stain over stain, watching it swell with my semen soaking in. It was far more than I expected. When I let the last drop go, I pulled the tip away, folding the skin over it as if squeezing out whatever might still be inside, and leaned back in the chair to breathe deeply.

—Damn —was the only thing I could manage to say.

I stayed like that for a while, with my cock still throbbing in my hand, already soft but sensitive, my breathing ragged and a tingle in my legs, the kind that stays after a good wank. When I came to, I saw a thread of cum still hanging from the glans. I picked up the panties, soaked and warm with two different juices, and used them to wipe my cock clean, running the fabric over the head, the shaft, under the balls. Almost carefully, as if cleaning myself with them were the last part of the ritual she had begun in the cinema bathroom.

***

I pulled my pants up and buttoned them. I gathered the panties, now heavy and damp with two different juices, and dropped them into the drum together with the new shirt and a couple of other things I had to wash. I added the detergent, closed the lid, and turned the cycle dial.

The machine started up with its low hum and began to fill with water. I stood there watching it for a few seconds, as if something more than fabric were being washed inside. In a way, that was exactly right. Tomorrow those panties would come out clean, without marks, without smell, without anything to betray the afternoon. Only the memory would remain, and memory doesn’t disappear with any spin cycle.

I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a beer. I cracked it open and took the first sip leaning on the counter, looking toward the laundry room from a distance. That day had to end like this, I told myself: with a cold beer, no rush, and a woman’s perfume still clinging to my nose that, besides being pleasant, was one of those that doesn’t come off easily.

I thought about her. About how, probably, at that very same hour, she would be at home with her hand between her legs, imagining exactly what I had just done, coming again while thinking of her cum mixed with mine on that blue fabric. She had set everything up for that. I took another drink of beer and smiled in the empty kitchen.

Well played. I hope there’s a next time.