Chapter 400: Mira Smells the Bare Cunt

Angela moaned low—throaty, desperate—then forced it back, glancing toward the tree’s edge where Mira waited. "You’re gonna make me cum just from walking, aren’t you? Bare pussy rubbing, clit throbbing, your confiscated panties in your pocket like a fucking trophy... heh... fine."

"But if Mira notices—if she sees how shiny my thighs are, how my pussy lips are all puffy and glistening—she’s gonna know. And then what, husband? You gonna confiscate hers too?"

I smirked, giving her ass one last hard smack—cheeks jiggling, the sound sharp in the quiet night. "Maybe. But first... let’s go back. Nice and slow."

"Let her get a good look at my wife’s bare, dripping cunt under that top. And if she asks why you’re walking funny... tell her the truth. Your husband took your panties... and now your pussy’s leaking for him."

Angela showed me an annoyed look—half playful glare, half genuine frustration—but the heat in her eyes betrayed how turned on she still was.

She bent down quickly, snatching her discarded pants from the leaf-strewn ground and stepping into them with hurried, jerky movements.

As she tugged the waistband up over her hips, the fabric slid against her freshly bare, piss-soaked pussy for the first time.

She gasped sharply—loud enough that I heard it clearly, even though she tried to swallow the sound. The rough denim pressed directly against her swollen, sensitive lips—no lace buffer, no cotton shield—just coarse material grinding right into her engorged clit and puffy folds.

Her inner thighs were still slick with our mixed piss and cunt-juice, so the pants clung immediately, outlining every curve of her mound in damp, obscene detail. The seam of the crotch dug right into her slit, rubbing her throbbing clit with every tiny shift of her hips.

"F-fuck... Dexter..." she hissed under her breath, thighs clenching as she buttoned and zipped.

"It’s... It’s rubbing my bare clit raw already. Every step’s gonna make my pussy lips kiss the denim... shit, I’m dripping again."

I chuckled low and dark, stepping close enough to brush my fingers along the front of her pants—pressing just hard enough to feel the heat radiating from her naked cunt beneath the fabric.

"Good. Walk slow, wife. Let that bare pussy grind itself stupid against your jeans. By the time we get back to the fire, you’ll be leaving a wet spot on the crotch... and Mira’s gonna smell it."

Angela shot me another annoyed-but-aroused glare, biting her lower lip to stifle a whimper as she took her first experimental step. Her hips swayed unnaturally—short, careful strides, thighs pressed tight together like she was trying (and failing) to stop the friction from making her cum right there.

I picked up the torch, the beam swinging lazily across her ass as she adjusted her posture, then turned toward the path. "Come on. Let’s not keep your audience waiting."

We stepped out from behind the tree together—Angela slightly ahead, trying to walk normally but failing miserably. Her gait was stiff, hips rolling in tiny, aborted circles with each step, the denim visibly darker at the crotch already from the fresh trickle of arousal leaking out of her bare slit.

Every few paces, she had to pause, thighs squeezing, a soft, involuntary "nngh" escaping her lips before she could catch it.

Mira and Lisa were right where we’d left them—Mira still rooted, cheeks flushed, breathing shallow and fast, eyes darting between us like she was trying to read every shadow on our bodies.

Lisa stood calmer, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in quiet amusement.

Mira’s gaze zeroed in on Angela immediately—tracking the strange, careful way she moved, the subtle hitch in her step, the way her thighs rubbed together a little too tightly.

She didn’t say anything at first, but her nostrils flared slightly, as if catching the faint, unmistakable scent of sex and piss drifting off Angela’s skin.

I broke the silence, voice casual, almost bored. "Let’s go back."

With that, we all turned and started walking toward the distant glow of the campfire. Angela fell in beside me, Lisa took the lead, and Mira—after a long, conflicted second—trailed just behind us, close enough that she could see every detail.

Angela was suffering beautifully.

Every step made her gasp softly—bare pussy lips sliding wetly against rough denim, clit catching on the seam with agonizing friction. Her thighs were slick; she could feel fresh cunt-juice mixing with the drying piss, trickling down her inner legs in slow rivulets.

The crotch of her jeans was darkening visibly now—dark patch spreading, outlining the plump shape of her mound.

She tried to walk normally, but her hips kept twitching, ass cheeks clenching, a tiny whimper slipping out every time the fabric dragged over her oversensitive clit.

"Fuck... Dexter..." she whispered, leaning into my side so only I could hear. "It’s grinding my clit so hard... every step’s like you’re still rubbing your cock on it... I’m gonna cum if I don’t stop moving like this..."

I rested a hand low on her back—fingers dipping just under the waistband, brushing the top of her bare ass crack. "Then cum, wife. Quietly. Let Mira hear those little choked moans. Let her see how my wife walks when her pussy’s bare and leaking under her jeans."

Angela bit her lip hard, thighs trembling. "You bastard... You took my panties, so I’d have to walk back like this... cunt rubbing raw, clit throbbing, jeans soaked... nghhh... fuck, it’s too much..."

Mira was walking close enough behind to catch every hitch in Angela’s breath, every subtle rock of her hips. Her eyes kept dropping—first to Angela’s ass, then lower, to the dark, spreading wet spot on the front of her pants.

She swallowed hard, cheeks burning, but she didn’t look away. Her own thighs were pressed tight together again, steps short and careful, like she was fighting her own growing ache.

Lisa glanced back once, smirking faintly, but said nothing.

By the time the campfire came into view—warm orange glow flickering against the trees—Angela was shaking. Her breathing was ragged, shallow pants, hips jerking in tiny, aborted thrusts with each step.

The crotch of her jeans was visibly soaked now—a dark patch spreading down the inner thighs, the outline of her bare pussy lips clear through the damp fabric.

She stumbled once—caught herself on my arm—and let out a soft, broken whimper that carried just far enough for Mira to hear.

Mira’s breath hitched audibly behind us.

We reached the fire circle. Angela dropped to her knees on the grass with a shuddering sigh—thighs spreading slightly as she sat back on her heels, trying to relieve the pressure on her clit.

The movement only made it worse—the seam dug deeper, rubbing her bare, swollen nub mercilessly. She bit her lip so hard I thought she’d draw blood, eyes glassy, body trembling on the edge.

I crouched beside her, voice low. "You made it. Bare-cunted and dripping the whole way. Good girl."