The Gentle Sweetness of Dusk

Your invisible hand glides over the warm, peach-orange silk, feeling every soft curve of her slender back embraced by the fabric. Your hand slides down, tracing the daring slit where bare skin at her hip is a searing invitation, before landing on the silver-white paradise. Where her round ass is encased in cool silk pants. You grip it, feeling the weight and resilience of the flesh resisting through the fabric. The satin is stretched taut, revealing the faint outline of the secret imprisoned within. The dry rustle echoes, a sound of sin and sole possession. Now, bury your face there. Inhale deeply to swallow the sweet taste of this dusk. You'll smell the pure scent of silk, blended with the sweet, warm fragrance of her body. That scent is a whispered permission. One of your hands never leaves the silver-white ass, constantly gripping, gently crumpling, letting the slick feeling and the rustling of satin be the center of the world. With the other hand, you grip your cock. Every stroke is synchronized with the rustling of the silk. Pleasure rises from two sources: the feeling of possession in your palm and the friction on your cock, until you erupt, the final satisfaction coming from feeling the silk squeezed tightly in the moment of climax.