Caught Sniffing Her Friend's Creampied Panties

Ambrose was twenty-eight and already hard before the truck even left the curb. He and his wife, thirty-year-old Daphne, had pulled into the driveway just as Greta’s husband shouldered a work bag and came down the steps. Greta was thirty-two, barefoot in a thin robe, mouth still swollen from whatever Silas had done to her in the last half hour. Silas kissed her once, hard, laughed something about leaving her a mess, nodded at the two of them, and drove off for his shift.

Daphne drifted toward the kitchen, talking about coffee. Ambrose stayed in the living room. The air was thick with salt and skin. Greta sighed, peeled a pair of pale panties down her thighs right there by the couch, and dropped the soaked cotton on the armrest.

“Give me a second,” she said, and padded toward the bathroom.

The panties were warm in his hand. The crotch was heavy, glossy, packed with fresh cream that had leaked out of her and barely cooled at the edges. Silas’s load. Ambrose brought them to his face before he could stop himself. The smell hit the back of his throat—Greta’s pussy and another man’s cum, still body-hot—and his cock jumped so hard the zipper bit him. He buried his nose in the wet spot. His tongue touched it. Salt, bitterness, her.

“Well,” Greta said from the doorway. “Look at you.”

He froze, panties mashed against his mouth.

She didn’t snatch them away. She smirked, robe hanging open, inner thighs shiny, and raised her voice toward the kitchen. “Daphne. Come in here. You need to see what your husband is doing with my panties.”

Daphne came in with a mug and stopped. Ambrose’s face was still buried in the ruined cotton, eyes wide, cock straining against his pants. For a second the room was nothing but the wet sound of his breath through fabric.

Then both women laughed.

Not shocked. Knowing.

“Months,” Daphne said, setting the mug down. “I’ve watched you get hard every time Silas puts a hand on her at dinner. I told Greta you’d do something stupid if we ever caught you alone with the evidence.”

Greta took the panties from his slack fingers and held them up, the crotch gleaming. “He was licking them. Fresh ones. Silas fucked me over the back of that couch twenty minutes ago and came so deep I could feel it when I walked them to the door. And your husband couldn’t wait.”

Ambrose’s face burned. His cock throbbed anyway. “I—Daphne, I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie,” his wife said, and her voice had gone low and pleased. “You’ve wanted to be used like this. We both knew. We just hadn’t decided what to do with you yet.”

Greta sat on the couch, robe falling open, and spread her thighs. Her pussy was flushed, swollen, and still a mess. Silas’s cum welled at her entrance and slid in a thick white thread down toward her ass. She hooked two fingers under herself and opened, showing him the creamy hole her husband had just left.

“Come here,” she said. “If you’re going to sniff it, you’re going to clean it. Both of us think you need that. Right now.”

Daphne moved behind him and put a hand on the back of his neck. Not rough. Certain. “On your knees, Ambrose. You want this. Say it.”

His mouth was dry and his cock was leaking in his pants. The shame made him dizzy, and under the shame the want was worse. “I want it,” he said. “Please. Let me clean her.”

“Good boy,” Greta murmured, and spread wider. “Get your tongue in my friend’s husband’s cum and don’t stop until I tell you.”

He dropped. The carpet bit his knees. Greta’s scent rolled over him, hotter than the panties, richer, and Daphne’s hand stayed on his skull like a claim. Greta’s dirty talk didn’t let up. She told him he was a pathetic little cuck, told him Silas had fucked her until she squirted and then filled her anyway, told him to open his mouth and earn the right to breathe. Daphne leaned over his shoulder and added her own, calm and filthy, describing how long they’d suspected, how hard he got when other men looked at her, how this was what he was for.

He didn’t argue. He pressed his face between Greta’s thighs and licked.

The first stroke was long and sloppy, from the crease of her ass up through the mess to her clit. Cum coated his tongue, thick and bitter, mixed with the sweeter tang of her. He swallowed without being asked and went back for more, nose buried in her, lips sealed around her swollen cunt while she sighed and rocked. Daphne held his head in place when he tried to come up for air.

“All of it,” his wife said. “Every drop Silas left in her. That’s your job this morning.”

Greta laughed, breathless, and ground against his mouth. “Listen to him. He’s moaning into it. God, he’s hard, isn’t he? Don’t you dare touch yourself. You clean, you swallow, you thank me.”

He licked in long, hungry strokes, chasing the cream as it leaked, sucking at her entrance until more of Silas’s load spilled onto his tongue. It was obscene and warm and endless. Greta’s fingers tightened in his hair beside Daphne’s hand. She came with a sharp little cry, pulsing against his mouth, and more cum squeezed out around his tongue. He swallowed that too, throat working, face smeared, cock aching so badly he thought he might come in his pants just from the taste.

When she finally pushed his forehead back, her pussy was pink and wet and empty. He had taken all of it.

“Stand up,” Daphne said.

He did, shaking, chin glossy. Greta looked him over, satisfied, and tossed him the panties. “Take those home. You’re not done. Go wait in your apartment. Don’t jerk off. Don’t wash your face. When Daphne gets there, you do exactly what she says.”

They sent him out the door like that—hard, humiliated, mouth full of another man’s cum—and he drove home tasting Silas the whole way.

He waited on the couch for hours, cock still half-hard, the stained panties on the coffee table. Evening light was going gray when the lock turned. Daphne came in flushed, dress wrinkled, walking carefully. She didn’t kiss him. She stripped in the living room, dress, bra, then her own panties, and those were just as ruined as Greta’s had been. Cum slicked her inner thighs. Her pussy was puffy, used, leaking.

“Silas didn’t go straight to work,” she said, voice steady. “He fucked me in Greta’s guest room after you left the driveway this morning. Greta watched the door. He came in me the same way he came in her. Deep. A lot. I’ve been walking around with it all day.”

She climbed onto the couch, straddled his face, and lowered her well-fucked pussy onto his mouth. “Clean me. Same as her. You’ll taste it. It’s the same load, the same man. Open.”

He opened. She tasted identical—salt, bitterness, the thick male finish of Silas—under Daphne’s own familiar sweetness. The realization made his cock jerk against his stomach, rock-hard and untouched. He licked her the way he had licked Greta, long sloppy strokes, swallowing every drop that spilled, nose pressed to her clit while she rode his tongue and told him what her friend’s husband had felt like inside her. Thick. Rough. Better than him. She held his head and used his mouth until the creampie was gone and only her own wetness remained, and still she didn’t let him stop.

Daphne ground through a powerful orgasm on her husband’s tongue, thighs shaking, cunt pulsing, flooding his mouth while she gasped how full Silas had left her. When the spasms eased she stayed seated on his face a moment longer, then swung off and pointed at the cum-stained panties on the table.

“Thank me,” she said. “Out loud. Thank me for letting Silas breed both of us.”

“Thank you,” Ambrose rasped, cock dripping, face wrecked. “Thank you for letting him breed you. Thank you for letting him breed Greta. Thank you for making me clean it.”

“Now jerk that denied cock onto those panties. Don’t you dare cum anywhere else.”

He wrapped his fist around himself and stroked, frantic, eyes on her used pussy while she watched and kept talking—how Silas had held her hips, how deep he’d buried it, how she’d clenched and taken every spurt. Ambrose came hard, stripes of his own cum striping the already filthy cotton, mixing with what was left of Silas, and Daphne’s last words were a filthy purr.

“Look at that pathetic load sitting in his mess—next time he breeds me you can lick yours off my cunt after you’ve swallowed his.”