A Natural History Of Desire

Kirsten sat up straight.

"Really?" she gasped. "Is that true?"

"Yep." It was true, too. It was a lie that Joan wouldn't mind about Kirsten, though.

"Why would she suggest a thing like that?" she asked me.

"Oh, it was in one of our semi-off periods. We were just being friends with fucks allowed at that time."

"Why didn't you go?" Kirsten asked me. "You'd have all those loose women to screw. You'd be in heaven."

"Nope," I said. "Fucking the loose women would be great, but I really don't want to be in the same room with a bunch of other men's dicks – incidental contact with naked males is just not my thing. And, any way - I only get these for you." I put what I hoped was a look of great longing on my face and pointed at my still semi-erect dick, which lay slightly throbbing under the leg of my sweats.

"My god, it looks so thick – did I make you get that? Do I do that for you?" she asked.

"You should think what I can do for you," I told her.

"You really should take care of that erection, Carl," she said, smiling. "I'll leave now so you can go jump on Joan, or do something, and - I give you permission to think about me."

"I don't think I need permission to think about you," I said.

She laughed, and then got serious, looking me full in the face. "Really, Carl, do you ever, do you ever, you know - ", she began.

"Do I ever what? Say it straight out," I demanded.

"Do you ever, you know, masturbate about me?" she asked.

"Yes!" I told her. "I do it constantly, even in the restroom at work. And I make Joan wear a mask with your photo on it when we fuck. Self-abuse and spousal abuse – this is what you've driven me to."

"Ah – you can't ever be serious," she said.

"Yes I can," I told her.

"Any way," she said, gathering up her purse and keys. "We're leaving for Big Bear Lake on Thursday morning. You know where the key is, you know where the kitchen is. Extra cat food is in the laundry room. I'll leave the number of the campground where we'll be."

She was heading out my front door. She hesitated a moment, then turned to me purposefully, as though she had made up her mind about something. "Oh, also," she added, grinning what could only be called a lascivious grin, "because you've been such a big dear of a boy - my shower pictures are in the dresser by my bed."

She was watching my face carefully, where I felt sure a look of extreme interest was growing.

"You'll have to search through the drawers for them," she said. "The drawers where I keep all my bras and panties. Have fun!"

And she walked down my driveway and left.

Her shower pictures. I was floored. A bit of background is in order here. You might think she was inviting me to root and snuffle through her underwear drawer while I was at her house, and she was, which was sexy as hell and pretty wild of her to do. But, the main draw - now - was not the bras and panties. It was the shower pictures. These were not photos of a particularly nice bathroom renovation. The shower pictures were pictures of Kirsten. In the shower. In a rare moment away from fishing, her husband had stuck his hand and a camera over the top of the shower stall and snapped photos of her taking a shower, and if I was now being invited to see them, well, it was the first time I could think of Kirsten's hubby with anything like real affection.

Kirsten told me about these photos long ago, and periodically I had cajoled, wheedled, and otherwise expressed my urgent need to see them. "They do show a pretty decent breast angle," she had informed me.

"Please – just one look," I had said repeatedly. "Nobody has to know. I mean, geez, Kirsten, you already gave me a pretty sexy photo of yourself."

This was true. A while back, out of the blue, she asked me if I would like a photo of her. Of course, I said yes. Yes is always the right answer to that question, isn't it, when you stop and think about it. So I said yes, and she went looking.

"Let's find a good one for you," she said, and she brought a photo of herself from the waist up, in a very feminine white lacy high-necked blouse, which she really fills up nicely if you take my meaning. Kirsten's a very tanned woman, incidentally, and in the picture her tan sort of glows through the white material - so much so that it quite clearly defines the outline of the plungingly low-cut scalloped lace bra she's wearing, unmistakably visible through the thin fabric of the blouse.

"Wow," I said. "Nice bra."

"Men are so visual. There, dear - my gift to you," she said, with a beautiful smile.

What a girl.

So, in my fevered mind Kirsten herself had established the precedent that in all fairness should justify my being granted a look at the shower pictures. Until now, the answer had always been no. Now, apparently, the answer was yes. Never underestimate the anger of a woman forced to go fishing, I guess.

So, what in hell was going on here? I don't believe I was merely the unwitting dupe of a scheming woman working out her marital frustrations with arcane, sideswiping punishments of her partner. I don't know if, in her mind, she was striking out at him by teasing and by flirting (to put it mildly) with me. If so, I understand that. But, I also understand that since her husband didn't know about any of it, he wasn't in truth being punished at all, and therefore I further understand that what seemed like intended punishment for him may have in reality been just a license to be nasty for her. Or, more simply, maybe having me on all fours wagging my tail and trying to sniff her crotch made her feel powerful for a change. If any or all of the above were true, so be it. Fine with me. I got something out of it, too. A mutually beneficial transaction. It is what it is.

Oh, what a sense of anticipation gripped me as Thursday came around and I headed to Kirsten's place after work. I found the key and let myself into the quiet house. I stopped to feed and pet the kitty, who condescendingly acknowledged my presence then strolled off to her kitty bed for a nap. I went up to the bedroom. Kirsten's dresser was the one covered with perfume bottles and other girly stuff. How nice – the room smelled familiar, smelled like her. I sat on the edge of her side of the bed. Her dresser was facing me, a few feet away. I stared at it intently, as though trying to see inside without actually touching the drawers. Wait, I thought, she told me where to look. Shewantsme to look.

The top drawer was all jewelry. No photos there. Next came bras. I felt down below the piles of black, blue, and white lace, underwires, clips, straps, cups – it all felt and smelled so nice. Drawer three was panties. Oh my. So shiny, so silky, so scanty. Underneath a pile of these I found a packet of photos.

I thumbed through the pictures: hubby's boat, hubby's boat, Biscuit the cat, hubby, Kirsten with her girlfriend, hubby's truck, hubby's boat and truck, the cat, and finally, Kirsten naked in the shower. I stared. Well, the woman is no liar. A decent breast angle was definitely on display. The photos showed her, shot from slightly above, wet (soapy in another photo), with her hands together holding a bar of soap. Her arms and hands frame her breasts, which are not tanned, and are very full, with just the right amount of sag to them to make them look wanton and sexy, and with dark crinkly erect nipples that point at an angle upward. These tits look heavy. And utterly delicious. The left breast looks to be just slightly larger than the right. For some reason this made me practically fizz with lust and desire.

She had a tiny smirk on her face. No shock, no shyness on that face. Below her hands, the nice brown shiny-wet belly, then a small untanned area, which a bikini would usually cover, and in that untanned area, a nice thick patch of auburn pubic hair, trimmed narrow but left semi-bushy. Perfect. Then, her strong-looking thighs and shadows toward the bottom of the photo. All three photos were about the same. I was entranced. And, I realized, absurdly hard.

I will now confess something: a few times when I've given old Joan a real pounding in the sack, I was thinking about Kirsten. Joan loved a good thrashing in bed – and she by god knew she'd been fucked when I got done with her those times. Does she need to know why I'm that hard, that commanding, that tireless? I think not. She gets what she wants, doesn't realize what she's not getting, and I sort of get what I want. Mutual benefit. Makes the world go round. However, as much as I've talked about it, I've actually never done anything like form a conscious plan to masturbate while thinking about Kirsten. I never could decide if it might make me feel sad and pathetic. That was about to change. She had invited me to look at naked pictures of her, and told me where to find them, and had even told me to "have fun," hadn't she? I had permission.

And I knew what I was going to do. Let's be frank, folks – I was going to jack off while looking at the pictures of Kirsten. I stood up and looked around the room. Maybe she has some nice lotion I can use on my dick, I thought. Then, while looking at the bottles on her dresser, I noticed a small package with my name on it. It was Kirsten's handwriting. In the package was a short note, along with a pair of really slick and silky dark blue panties. Incredibly slinky and nice feeling material. The note read as follows:

Thanks so much for watching my kitty. Here's a little keepsake for you, dear boy. I wore these panties all day yesterday.Sorry, I had no time to wash them. It was a rather hot day yesterday too! Maybe if you see something in my bedroom that makes you very horny, you'd like to use these panties as a sort of "lubricant." They feel quite nice when you rub yourself with them – I know. Love, K

That was pretty much it for me. I whipped my shoes, jeans, and underwear off and lay down on her side of the bed, my head on her pillow, surrounded by the smell of her familiar perfume. My cock was the very definition of erect, the head dark purple, every vein in the shaft bulging with lust. I put the panties to my face and inhaled the scent of Kirsten's pussy. Funky, musty, lovely smell. A dried stain had stiffened the panties' crotch area. I licked it lustily, eagerly getting the sweet and sour taste of her cunt – eating her out by proxy.

The biggest section of material that formed the panties was the part that covered the backside – although the small triangle wouldn't have covered much – and I wrapped this around my straining cock and stroked myself. In my other hand, I held one of the photos of Kirsten, my eyes devouring the sight of that beautiful body. It didn't take long at all for me to feel that feeling of impending explosion. I tossed the panties aside (didn't want to spoil my present!) and went at myself with a will, stroking the full length of my shaft with every stroke until I knew there was no holding back.

You know those modern computerized fountains? You see them in public plazas and business parks, the fountains that are on programmed timers and shoot staccato bursts of water that form arcs and circles and so on? That's what it looked like when I came – repeated thick spurts of hot sperm arching through the air one after another and landing all over the satiny lace pillow my head was resting on. What a mess. At least it missed my face, is all I can say. If the energy and copiousness of the ejaculation can be a measure of passion, then I had passion aplenty for Kirsten right then. The orgasm had made me almost double up. Now I collapsed back on the bed, feeling great.

I lay there enjoying the moment. Of course, I hadn't actually had sex with Kirsten, but it was as close as she had ever let me get, I thought. She created the opportunity, gave me the means to get aroused, even provided a scenario for gratification. Well, I certainly had some gratification. I looked down at my spent dick, lying across my thigh like a big dead snake, still twitching from the orgasm, semen seeping out the head. I wanted to take a picture of it and leave it for Kirsten to find. Bad idea, I immediately thought. With my luck, her husband would find it. I wouldn't be in trouble - it would be a photo of an anonymous dick - but it could sure cause old Kirsten a bit of grief.

I reached down beside the bed and retrieved the panties she had left for me. I held them up: two narrow inverted triangles of miraculously filmy fabric connected by two thin elastic strings to ride on her substantial hips. God, what a sight she must be in these, I thought. I pictured her walking along a sunny street, in a billowy spring dress, with her smooth tanned bare legs, and under that dress just this tiny little pair of panties, riding up deep into the crevice of her ass, becoming just a bit damp from the exercise of walking and the torrid environment of her crotch. I put the panties to my face again, sniffing like a connoisseur sniffs his wine before drinking. Sure enough – mixed with the scent of her pussy was just a hint, a tiny taste, of her back door, the rear orifice. Out snaked my tongue to search out the source. Soon I was licking her juices all over again. And I could feel my penis cranking itself back up into the air. What the hell, I thought, and held the panties to my face with one hand while I helped myself to a second hand job with my other hand. It took considerably longer, no surprise there, and the finish wasn't as messy, but oh did it feel good. I was calling out Kirsten's name over and over again in her empty house.

I might have fallen asleep for a while. At any rate, it wasn't until I had gotten up and dressed myself that I noticed the large dark spot on Kirsten's pillow. Fuck – it was my come, soaking into her fancy satin – was it satin? silk? – pillow.

"Oh shit," I said aloud. I had to get that cleaned up. Not that I thought she would get mad about what I had done. Frankly, I wasn't worried about that. I did exactly what she wanted me to do, I believed. I just didn't want to ruin her nice pillowcase. I could soak it in water, but doesn't water stain satin? Will it shrink? Should I dry-clean it? What if they ask me what the stain is? If the dry cleaner was a hot-looking woman, I could see brazening it out. "What's the stain, you ask? I think you can guess what it is, my dear. I missed my girlfriend's face and hit the pillow." With my luck, the dry cleaner would be somebody who looked like my grandmother.

While I was worrying about this, the phone rang. I let it go to message, and I heard Kirsten's voice talking to me, so I picked up. "Hi," I said. "I heard your voice."

"We're here at the lake," she said.

"How's the big fisherman?" I asked, referring to her husband.

"He's putting the boat in the water down at the dock," she said, "so I've got a few minutes to myself."

"Biscuit's fine," I said. "She ate and she's asleep in her bed."

"Oh good," she said. "Carl - have you been upstairs? Did you find the package I left for you?"

"I did," I said.

"Do you like your present?" she asked.

"I love it," I answered. "Best gift I've ever gotten. Beautiful to look at – and delicious tasting."

"You tasted them?" she asked, her voice a mixture of delight and amusement.

"Tasted them, and smelled them – extensively," I replied.

"Oh fuck," she said. "That makes me so horny. If I could get my hands on you right this minute, you'd probably get whatever you wanted."

"Leave the lake," I said. "Drive home."

"Shit!" she said. There was a pause. "So, did you find anything else?"

I waited a few beats, just to let her really feel the suspense, if she was feeling any suspense. "Well, I did find ...some pictures," I said.

"What sort of pictures?" she asked.

"Beautiful pictures," I said. "That's a really nice boat your husband has – great photos of that."

"Come on, Carl," she said, "just tell me – did you find the pictures of me?"

"Did you want me to find them?" I demanded.

There was another pause. "Yes," she said in a quiet voice.

"Then I found them," I said.

"Um," she said, "did you, uh, use these items, the gift and the pictures?"

"Oh yeah," I said. "Twice."

"Really?" she cried. "Twice, Carl?"

"In rapid succession," I told her. That stopped her for a moment. Maybe she was surprised at just how perfectly her plan had worked out.

"Listen," I said, "there was one little glitch."

"Glitch?"

"Yes," I said. "I sort of, oh, well, I sort of shot my wad all over your pillow, and I don't know how to clean it up, I don't know what the fabric is and I don't want to ruin it. I'm sorry. Tell me what to do."

She was laughing. "How in the world did you manage that?" she asked me.

"Well, I was lying down, and when I, you know,came, it just shot up that far and landed on the pillow. It's your fault!" I cried. "You get me so damn excited, it just happened. So what should I do? I can take it to the dry cleaners or whatever you say."

"Ooh, what a man, to shoot it that far! Just let it dry and then turn the pillow over so it doesn't show," she said. "That'll be MY little gift. I'll sort of like knowing it's there. Maybe I'll do some smelling and tasting myself."

"Well, I doubt you're gonna want to do that when you get back after a whole week, but listen, Kirsten, there's plenty more where that came from," I said. "You have to see we're in a weird new phase now, don't you, in terms of where does this go from here, sort of. Having sex fantasies about you is great, but I'd really like to have sex with you, if you get my meaning. I mean, we're officially beyond flirting, you know."

"I know," she said. "I just don't know what's going to happen. Things can't go on like they are now. I know that, Carl. I may have done a bad thing by doing all this. I promise you, though, if I ever get single - I'll be calling."

After hanging up, I looked at the pillow and the stain. I had my doubts about this particular item's value as a keepsake, to say the least. The stain was drying to a very un-provocative crusty, flaky spot on the pillow. Sometimes our great moments end this way, no? I dutifully turned the pillow over and left it.

The week of cat sitting passed. Need I add that I made "use" of the photos several more times; enough times to make Kirsten either very flattered or convinced that I'm a weirdo. Maybe both – who knows. Despite my developing feeling that the situation was at least a strange one, and maybe a creepy one, I figured that such things just do not happen often, and if I was meant to enjoy it then I'd by god better enjoy what there was to enjoy while I had the chance. It was like a trip back to adolescence; except I could also tell myself that I was only doing what Kirsten wanted me to do.

I'm a fairly open-minded person; there are things I won't do but I also won't condemn those who do them. I was quite willing to accept the idea that she would like, would maybe even be excited by, the idea of walking into her bedroom when she returned from her vacation, and knowing about all the fevered activity that had gone on in there, all inspired by her. What a victory over her husband, if that's what she wanted, to lay there next to him, thinking about what I had lain in the very same spot doing, at her prompting, just days before. I don't actually know if that was her plan and her victory – I just knew that if I was her that might be what I'd be thinking.

Life's a jumbled and messy thing. In this period of time, these two situations, with Kirsten and the long-suffering Joan, were really my only two sources of interaction with women. Once past the excessive weirdness, in whole numbers it's pretty limited, if you think about it. Situation one: I'm terminally hot and bothered over some married woman who has me jerk off to photos of her, in her own house, which she'll come home to and sleep in with her husband. Situation two: my own girlfriend wants me to marry her but at one point would have also allowed me to go fuck her ex-husband's sister, and any other women I can get my wang into, at some bogus swingers party. Maybe I should have branched out more, looked for other women with fewer complications.