She hesitated, and her grip on my cock tightened.
“Well?” I asked.
“My panties had been moved,” Joan whispered. “I had left them on the floor beside the shower cubicle and, now, they were lying beside the toilet bowl. And – and – then, I checked the toilet bowl and there was a drop of – stuff – just under the rim.”
“Stuff?” I breathed, but I knew the answer before it came.
“Sperm – cum,” she breathed. “It had to be him – I cleaned it the day before and we hadn’t used it since. Donald had picked up my panties and masturbated in our toilet!”
“Was there any cum on your panties?” I asked, scarcely able to breathe.
“I didn’t find any,” said Joan, “but – oh, Kyle – it was hard to tell. You see, before I had my shower, I – well – I laid on the bed and – well, I was playing with myself, and my panties were covered in my – stuff!”
“So he wrapped his cock in your juiced-up panties, and…?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh, Kyle, it was so exciting! It made me feel so horny and turned on – I wanted to chase the van and get Donald to come back and do it again, and let me watch! As it was, I stripped off, and put the panties back on, and masturbated myself all over again!”
I couldn’t speak. I pressed Joan’s hand round my cock as I felt a huge orgasm building up, but she wrenched her hand away and leapt to her feet.
“Don’t you dare touch yourself!” she insisted. “I’m going to get us a drink – I’ve got some more to tell you!”
It took a huge effort of will to keep my hands off my throbbing erection, but I managed – just – and, gradually, I calmed down. In a couple of minutes, Joan returned with a large glass of wine for herself and a very good measure of my favourite malt whisky.
Handing me my glass, she sat in an easy chair, on the left of the couch.
“I can’t think straight when you’re touching me,” she apologised, “and I don’t want to get anything wrong. Is this OK with you, darling? I mean, on moving day and all – you seemed – well, then I thought maybe you’d changed your mind and you didn’t like – well, me – with other men. Is it OK?”
“Yeah,” I assured her, managing to follow what she was talking about, even though she was barely coherent, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Yes, it’s OK – it’s fine with me. And it makes me feel – even better – about you. Don’t even think about stopping now!”
She stood up and kissed me. I put my hand up and caressed her gorgeous bottom. She squirmed away, laughing.
“Later!” she chuckled, and took a long swallow from her glass as she settled in her chair again.
“After that day, I always got Donald to fetch and deliver the laundry from our bedroom, and I always left something lying around that was still warm from me wearing it. It wasn’t always panties – sometimes it was a baby-doll nightie, and sometimes a brassiere – and, every time, he used the toilet and, every time, what I had left had been moved. He didn’t leave it beside the toilet, always, but it was always in a different place. And, nearly always, after he had gone, I put it on again, and played with myself until I came.”