When I leave work on Friday, the sun is setting, and I walk to the train station gingerly on still-numb legs. I will never forget the way they buckled and gave out beneath me during my second orgasm. You held me up then, you kept me from collapsing, your hands firm and strong upon my hips.
But your ramrod-straight erection was firmer and stronger still. I'm convinced you could have kept me up with that alone, the long and powerful member with which you drove me to such helplessness in the first place.
I stumble through the winter streets with toes that tingle, with legs which tremble, with shaky step after shaky step, whilst to the west the light of the departing sun illuminates the sky in an afterglow almost as intense as my own. At first, the sunset is bright orange, matching perfectly the ginger curls that cascade down my back. But as I walk slowly on it changes, becomes deeper, until the last rays peeking out over the horizon are as deep and ruby red as the blush which lingers on my cheeks.
It's turned my fair skin a rich and rosy crimson, a passionate flush which deepens as I recall the energy and vigour of the act which put it there. The same colour as the blood which rushed in you, which raised that majestic cock high and proud when you took me and made me yours.
At the station, I sink gratefully into a seat, and my sigh sends steam billowing through the cold air. The faces around me are red too, raw with winter's touch. I wonder if it's obvious that what colours my face is not the cold but a healthy post-orgasmic glow.
The night may be cold but I am warm inside. Sticky, too, in need of a shower. I was covered in sweat by the end, and I can feel it in my long, curly hair, between my tingling toes in their black silk stockings, turning my white shirt translucent so that the bra which holds my D-cup breasts shows through. I wear my coat buttoned up to hide my dishevelment.
