Sent to work Damp
The morning light filtered through the half-open blinds, casting soft stripes across our bedroom as I stood in front of the full-length mirror, smoothing my hands down the front of my tight black pencil skirt. Hubby was already half-dressed—shirt open, —watching me with that quiet, hungry look he gets when he knows the day is about to start with me already marked as his.
I’d chosen the outfit deliberately: the crisp black blazer, the silky beige satin blouse that clung just enough to hint at the curves beneath, and underneath it all, the lingerie he loves most. Sheer black stockings with that delicious lace top, clipped to a satin suspender belt, and matching satin panties that felt cool and slippery against my skin. The pearl necklace rested heavy between my breasts, a touch of elegance over the pure filth of what I was really wearing for him.
He leaned against the dresser, pretending to button his cuffs, but his eyes never left me. I could feel them tracing the line of my legs as I stepped into my black patent heels, I bent slightly to adjust the hem of my skirt, knowing full well the view it gave him—the taut pull of suspenders against my thighs, the shadow where satin met skin.
I straightened up, turning to face him properly, blouse still unbuttoned just enough to show the swell of my breasts in the satin bra. That was when he moved—fast, decisive. No warning, no sweet talk. Just his hands on my hips, spinning me around, pushing me forward until my palms hit the end of the bed.
The mattress dipped under my weight as he bent me over, skirt riding up instantly. I felt the cool air on the backs of my thighs, then his fingers hooking the edge of my satin panties, yanking them roughly to one side. No teasing, no foreplay. Just the blunt head of his cock pressing against me—hard, insistent—before he drove in with one deep, claiming thrust.
I gasped, the stretch sharp and sudden, my body clenching around him. He didn’t give me time to adjust. His grip tightened on my hips, fingers digging in as he fucked me hard and fast—short, punishing strokes that slapped against me, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. My stockings rasped against his trousers with every thrust, The pearl necklace swung forward, clicking softly against the sheets.
He didn’t speak. He just used me—took what he wanted, grunting low in his throat as he chased his release. I felt him thicken inside me, the rhythm faltering for a second before he buried himself deep and came with a rough groan. Hot, thick pulses flooded me, spilling into my pussy until I could feel the excess starting to leak out around his shaft.
He stayed there a moment, cock twitching, letting every last drop empty into me. Then he pulled out abruptly, leaving me open and dripping. My panties snapped back into place, the satin instantly soaked, clinging wetly to my swollen lips. His cum seeped through the fabric almost immediately, warm and sticky against my skin.
He stepped back, breathing hard, already tucking himself away and zipping up like nothing had happened. “Get your bag,” he said, “We’re late.” I straightened slowly, legs trembling just a little. The skirt fell back into place, hiding the mess between my thighs—but I could feel it with every step. Slick, warm, unmistakable. The scent of sex clung to me—musky, raw—as I grabbed my coat and followed him downstairs.
In the car, I sat carefully, pressing my thighs together, but it didn’t help. Every bump in the road pushed more of his cum out of me, soaking the satin further, the wet patch growing against the seat. He glanced over once, smirking, then turned his eyes back to the road. At the station, he pulled up to the drop-off zone. I leaned over to kiss him he caught my chin, kissed me deeper, tasting the morning on my lips.
I stepped out, the cool air hitting my flushed skin. My panties were drenched, clinging obscenely, the scent of him rising every time I moved. Walking through the station, onto the train, then through the office corridors—I felt it with every stride. The subtle squelch, the slippery slide of satin against my pussy, the slow trickle that kept me constantly aware of how thoroughly he’d used me .All day at my desk, crossing and uncrossing my legs, trying to focus on spreadsheets while my knickers stayed soaked and sticky, the smell of sex faint but undeniable under my skirt. Colleagues chatted, phones rang, meetings droned on—and all I could think about was the load he’d pumped into me that morning, still leaking out slowly, marking me as his long after he’d dropped me off. By the time I got home, the satin was ruined, clinging wetly to every fold. And Hubby? He was waiting with that same hungry look, ready to see exactly what his quick morning fuck had done to his wife
