I tease him with my smooth satin panties.

They are a deep shade of salmon, with bikini trim along the edges. The fabric is smooth and shiny, clinging to the curves of the my body.

The scent of perfume lingers on the satin, mixed with the musky aroma of arousal. The combination is enticing and alluring.

As the panties rub against his hardening c*ck, there is a soft rustling sound, like the whisper of a silk curtain in a gentle breeze. As he moans and gasps in pleasure, the sound of his heavy breathing fills the air.

I watched him writhe beneath the relentless tease of the satin, his body shuddering with anticipation. The way his c*ck strained against the slippery fabric, the way every vein pulsed in his shaft, was a testament to how close he was to losing control. I let the panties glide up and down, folding the silk around his length, squeezing just enough to make him gasp, then slackening my grip to let him stew in the frictionless caress. His hips bucked with every stroke, and I could see the tension building in the muscles of his thighs, the tightening of his jaw as he tried desperately to hold back.

I slid the panties all the way down, letting them pool around the base, and wrapped my hand around the shaft, twisting the fabric with a practiced motion that made his eyes roll back in his head. I could feel him getting harder, more insistent, so I leaned in and whispered filth into his ear, my words laced with a promise of release if he could just hold out a l*ttle longer. He whimpered, a broken l*ttle sound of need, and I grinned, pleased at how close he was to the edge.

When I finally let go, it was only for a moment, just long enough to slip the panties all the way off and bunch them in my fist. I wrapped the soft, damp satin around his c*ck and resumed stroking, slow at first, letting the wetness of my own arousal soak through the thin fabric and add to the sensation. He thrust up into my grip, desperate, and I obliged by moving faster, the satin growing slicker with every p*ss. The friction was perfect: not too rough, not too gentle, just enough to make him curse and beg for more.

His *rgasm h*t him like a tidal wave. The first spurt was thick and blindingly white, soaking through the salmon silk and splattering against my knuckles. The next sh*t followed, and then another, each rope of c*m absorbed greedily by the panties until the fabric was utterly sodden, its color darkened by the spill. I kept stroking him through it, milking every last spasm, my other hand gathering up the overflow and letting it drip messily onto the sheet. The heat of his climax lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of perfume and sweat and s*x.

Once his c*ck twitched its last, I withdrew my hand and held up the ruined panties between two fingers. The material clung to itself, glossy and damp, a sticky blend of my wetness and his. It was a glorious mess, obscene and beautiful all at once. I brought the fabric to my lips and sucked a l*ttle bead of c*m from the edge, just to watch his reaction—he groaned, exhausted but still hungry, and I felt a surge of wicked satisfaction.

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