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In honour of the cooler weather I bought myself a new mink blanket. Normally I’m a stickler for natural fibers, but something about this plush synthetic covering reached out to my love of the sensual and I had to get it. Even though I paid for it I snuck out of the shop with it like a thief, partially obscuring the label by holding another shopping bag over the top of the carrier. Once home I pulled it free of its plastic cage and flung it wildly across the bed, and then flung myself across the top of it, burying my face in its furry folds and running my hands through the thick pile. When I stood up again and my feet touched the nylon carpet I got little a little shock of static on my toes…
That night in bed I laid my arms on top of the covers for a change, admiring the way my flesh looked pale and round and Russian against the dark mink fur. I imagined myself Anna Karenina, beset by lovers, unable to find satisfaction in the ordinary; all that night I tossed and turned, restless in my dreams. When I awoke I found I had pulled my arms in under the covers to a more familiar sleeping pose, yet my first desire was to lay them back across the blanket, scrunching it up between my fingers like the loose fur on the scruff of an animal’s neck. The insistent alarm shrilled at me and I had to leave the bed, but I thrilled at being able to make my bed on this morning, smoothing away the wrinkled and creases in the fur, brushing it down so the pile lay smooth and flat and sleek. It was a sensation of delight to sit on the corner of the bed, clad in my knickers and bra, pulling my stockings on bit by bit so that the tickling sensation against my thighs would last as long as possible.
During the day at work I thought about how nice it would be to get home and snuggle into the blanket, cocoon myself in its folds, warm and comforting. I could not seem to get warm all day, no matter how much I rushed about or turned up the heating as high as my colleagues would allow. At the end of work I jumped in the car and hightailed it home, pushing through hideous traffic with one thought on my mind – mink blanket…
Throwing my bag on the floor, letting the door slam behind me with the momentum of my entry, kicking off my shoes, tugging my coat and jacket off, pulling my shirt over my head, sliding my skirt down with my stockings, I leapt onto the bed in my underclothes and let my skin drink in the sensation of fur all over my body, tickling, teasing, warm. I rolled about, grasping folds of the blanket in my hands, pulling it over myself, flinging it away, pulling it back again. I slid a leg out and over so that there was a thick mass of blanket between my thighs.
My back arching, hands grasping, I rubbed myself up and down the minky fur, my excitement growing so that very soon my pussy was pulsing in time with my gyrations. I felt myself getting wet and I reached down between my thighs, pulling my knickers to one side, running a finger over and around my labia, teasing the hood of my clit. I could feel the blanket pelt against the back of my hand, my own pelt under my palm, soft warm slippery flesh under my fingers. As I wriggled and moaned the blanket warmed beneath me and it became a creature of its own, caressing me, urging me on to deeper pleasure.
Recklessly I plunged two fingers deep inside myself and drew them slowly out, then slowly back in. My pussy lips sucked against the insurgence, my whole being shuddered. I increased the motion of my fingers, allowed my other hand to drop back against the blanket, threw open my legs and abandoned myself to the caress. It seemed only moments before I came, hard, rocking against my hand. I allowed my fingers to rest there before slowly withdrawing them, bringing them up to cup my mons, one finger tracing the lazy outline of the top of my slit. Now the pelt was holding me, warming me, and I sighed as I relaxed against its soft embrace.
Hours later I woke in the dark, cocooned in my mink blanket and the thought occurred to me that I hoped it was machine washable…
© 2011 – 2012 Louise Turner
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