Her Burgundy Dress

When we were first dating, my wife had this burgundy-colored cotton dress she always wore. She would drive up for the weekend, and arrive in her dress and nothing underneath. I would spend all week fantasizing about catching her as she walked in the door, kneeling before her and slowly sliding the fabric up her legs, gathering it together in the small of her back, watching it tighten around her breasts and accentuate the narrowness above her hips. In my fantasy, I trace the interface of cloth and skin with my fingers, wrap the fabric around my hand and draw her to me until my mouth finds the soft mound between her legs. I brush my nose along the smooth dark lips of her pussy, inhaling her scent as I part them with my tongue. Bracing against the open door, she slips her leg over my shoulder, opening to my fingers as they slide inside her. I intensify the rhythm of my strokes, and soon enough, she takes hold of me, steering the energies of my tongue as waves of pleasure build. My fantasy ends as she finally loses control, and the release pulses through her quivering body. Those first weekend visits are almost 15 years ago, and that dress is long gone. At the time, I wasn’t bold enough to take her like that, and so it has remained an unfulfilled fantasy. At least now I have the confidence to catch her as she comes through the door and whisper in her ear what I want to do with that new dress she is wearing.