2:04. . . 2:05. . . 2:06. . . I finally roll over so that I can't see the green numbers on the damned clock. So dark and winter cold in the house, so quiet and all I can think of is you. I waited an hour, nonchalantly checked a dozen more times, but you didn't message me hello or goodnight. Maybe you couldn't get away; maybe Friday afternoon was enough for you, at least for a while, but I can't imagine you ever having enough. Restlessly I turn again, 2:17 and now I'm wide awake, thinking of the last time we chatted, which really doesn't describe last Friday afternoon, chatting. If I concentrate on work to try to drown you out I'm just as wide awake, and if I imagine you to forget work I am more awake but in a different way, 2:19.
Lying on my side, back to him under thick covers, I feel the pair of string bikini panties creased between my thighs, the long t-shirt and footie socks that barely reach my ankles. You've made me feel sexy again, I'll give you that; I used to sleep in formless pajamas that might as well have been his, or my mother's, ages ago. It dawns on me that I'm rhythmically flexing my thighs, clenching and relaxing, tensing the muscles and teasing myself silly. The covers warm from two bodies' heat, one snoring lightly and oblivious to my needs. When I extend a leg, point my toe and bend the other leg like a flamingo in repose, knee pulled tightly into my chest, my hand wanders to my bottom, pushed out for a lover nowhere to be found. If I lightly trace my fissure I explore my outline through the slightly dewy crotch, swelling lips and higher up by an inch my tiny back door. I have to pee.
The toilet seat is as cold as the house and warmth trickles from me as I think of those pictures, your face in that goofy hat at what looks like a barbecue, the other revelers' faces smudged into anonymity. And then there's that other one, both photos hidden on the hard drive with the volumes of words we have exchanged. I can't believe you sent the second one. You're long and hard and straight, your strong grip choking the base of your stiff shaft, a masculine hand wrapping part of your length starting at your balls as if you are milking out the cum that's bubbling from the head and starting to run down your length. You have size to spare, size enough to keep me staring and wondering what you would feel like buried in me, ripped muscles against my soft abdomen, if all of your length even would fit. "Love, mjkhnds" you sign everything. Maybe they are magical. Sometimes I wonder if what I imagine is better than the real thing and if I'll ever know the touch of your 23 year old hands.
And yes, I'm a coward. My face is blurred in my photo, but my boobs hang perky and perpendicular, pretty good for thirty-something I hope, enough to hold your interest despite the young women who have to be as hungry for you as I am. My sex I trimmed for you, legs faintly parted, arm on one hip swung provocatively to the side with a come hither look in my eyes, all the while feeling stupid posing for a web cam. Clever of me though to pose in front of a mirror to show you the slope of my back and the curve of my cheeks diving into the darkness between my legs, a two for one photo. You know what you would do with all of that you tell me; I have no doubt you'd take your pleasure everywhere, I hope at least. I'm saving one other photo for a special occasion, pink and gaping and private, pulled apart and glistening with moisture, my expression hungry I think, just minutes before my back arched and I moaned and gasped in release.
Xanax or the guest bed, now I have another choice, my racing thoughts and my rapid breathing betraying my intentions. Feinting for the toilet paper I pause and pretend my hands are deciding for me. They instead reach for a towelette under the sink. The moist cold shocks my lips as I dredge between my pink folds and neatly dab and paint everywhere.
The guilty don't flush for fear of rousing the family, though he sleeps soundly no matter what I do; he would never hear anyway, who am I kidding. Maybe he wouldn't even care.
On the balls of my feet I take my pillow and pad through the darkness toward the privacy of the guest room, my nipples stiff in the chilly air. You still haven't messaged me I notice; no doubt you are asleep by now. Lucky you, I guess. Must have been a busy day, but I'm still yours even if you are asleep, you've got your hook into me, were it only that long warm one. I dwell on our pictures before I shut down the laptop.
I pull back the covers and crawl into the cold of the guest bed curled like a cat to warm up my cocoon. You slip in next to me when I flip the extra pillow and hug it to my chest, the bottom corner brushing the bare skin between my thighs and igniting a small, smoldering fire as I squeeze it between my thighs. Two kids and twenty five years later I'm no longer a bashful teenager, but hugging a pillow still makes me feel lost in the turmoil of adolescence long passed.
Rolling onto my back and looking at the ceiling as your hands reach for me, my fingers begin at nipples that stab bumps into the thin cotton of my t-shirt, the weight of my boobs pulling them slightly to each side. It takes little to arouse me further as I loop with a tentative finger nubs the size and color of large, soft pencil erasers, finally pressing them down into flesh; they grow back harder and puffier. My face is hot now despite the cold house. I explore the whorls of my ears, my eyelids, my neck along my collarbone, wherever you might touch me. Then I return to the miniature tents my nipples have made in my tee. I stroke them simultaneously, gingerly, and feel my face flush down to my neckline. Softly pinching them draws my hips into a suggestive curl, my knees raising and my legs lightly falling into a position to take you even in your absence.
I start to play my undercover games, little teases woven together that serve as one long tease. 'How long can Corinne resist reaching under her clothes to touch her skin' is the first tease. All roads lead to bare skin and the moisture of my arousal; I don't do well at all at this game. I detour to my arms, to the sensitive insides, byways to my armpits, shaved smooth and tender. Forcing them to my neck and ears again, my fingers spiral up and down my arms, then to my sides, finally jumping to my belly and my navel, circling leisurely before I depress my shirt into this crater, now too close for comfort to my panties. Then I begin the next tease: 'how long can Corinne keep her hands out of her panties.' I'm not much at resisting in this game either.
My hand makes the move before I can stop it; a compromise is reached. I sit up and quickly remove my shirt, toss it to the floor beside the bed and roll onto my stomach. The warm sheets welcome the skin of my chest, large breasts squashed under the weight of my body and pressed into the mattress, my nipples cheated of the bare stroking that seemed all but assured. Could you be undressing behind me now, wanting my body, telling me what you might do once you get our clothes off? Some nights I imagine you sweet; others you are rough and vulgar, raw masculine desire forming your words for you.
You talk like a porn film sometimes, like guys at a bar talk: "Your ass looks good enough to eat Corinne. I can only see the top of your crack. You little cock tease. Pull your panties down."
I reach down and pull my panties just off of my bottom and stop. My legs are tightly pressed together. I feel so smooth back there, my ass so sexy and my crack so deep as my fingers explore the ridge of the valley, the caves still hidden from you.
"Don't make me rip those off of you, Baby."
No, you won't have to, I think, as I shinny them down my thighs and my calves. I fold my legs at my knees and draw them up behind me, take them off and drop them with my tee.
"Your butt is hot babe. Maybe a kiss would open those thighs. Maybe a smack would be quicker."
Oh yes, a long kiss will; save the smack, for later. I stroke my feet, hanging in the air just over my ass, legs curled at the knees, touching each toe in turn before I straighten my legs and again move a hand to my rear. My legs part slightly as I feel cool air on the warm skin of my inner thighs. Now I can't resist and I touch the backs of my thighs, struggling to delay, trying to be satisfied with the slow pace of your lovemaking, loving the feel of my crease where legs become cheeks, loving that men follow me with greedy eyes as I walk down the street.
Finally I play 'how long can Corinne keep her fingers off of her pussy.' I'm exceedingly bad at this tease as well. The cool air feels so good in contrast to my heat. I spread further, even pull my ass up off of the bed an inch or so, maybe more, as if you want me on my knees to fuck me with my head mashed into the pillow to muffle my cries, my back bent into a submissive arch. I wish I could see myself like this. Please fuck me like this.
"That would be too easy. Pull yourself apart; let me see you. I want to see your pussy; spread it. I want to see your asshole."
My god, you are not sweet tonight. You would take me hard, wouldn't you, plowing your young and greedy shaft into me so deep that it hurts deeper than I can reach. I pull myself apart like even my husband has never seen me; on display like your slut. When I reach to spread myself my right hand slips from my distended lips on the slick moisture. I regain a hold in a pinch and pull again, exposing inner lips to the air, my private warmth shocked with a little blast of cold on the wet folds of pink skin. My fingers dig into my cheeks to stretch myself wide for you. And I hold the pose, my back curved low and my begging ass a foot or two off of the bed, wondering what my asshole looks like to you. Please fuck me, please.
"You are always in a hurry."
I am; I always am I think as I flip onto my back. So are you sometimes. My hands caress my chest, cup my boobs, squeeze them, my nipples hard between my outstretched fingers. I brush them with spit, the moisture making my fingertips slip and slide over my tender buds as my breath speeds up in anticipation. Again I spread my legs, my knees levitating in the air for you as the cool air hits the little foamy bubbles I imagine nestled in the entry of my pussy, swollen outer lips pulled further apart to reveal my fleshy inner ones, my tunnel ready to be violated.
One finger traces a line of saliva from my neck down the middle of my chest, bisecting my boobs, my navel, and dodging to avoid my clitoral hood to tickle my lips, ambling through my bush, around and around, down to the base where drops have channeled through the sides of my 'Y', along and beyond my modest pucker. Now having played the game as long as possible I slide a finger along my slit, dipping to touch the slick inner lips as I stifle a cry and glide into the sopping tissue.
I return to my mouth for warm saliva, tasting my clean tang as I return and again dredge my finger up and down my slit. My pussy is pleading to be invaded, for fingers to jam and curl into the hot darkness, to slide and roughly pull juices from my depths out into the cool air of the house as I writhe in response. I kiss my fingers again, covered with a glycerin sheen I rub on my lips, alive with a scent come from deep within me.
No longer able to restrain myself, my knees fall to the sides and my holes gape wide. Were you here I would pull you into me; rut me; slam and grind into me; mash your pubic bone on my clit and take my breath away with the satisfying pain. Plow me like one of your coeds in the back seat of your car. Feel my nails raking down your back, clenching your muscled ass, fingers curling for a grip, pulling you as far into me as you fit, one finger with nonchalance slipping into your pungent backdoor to indulge a dirty pleasure you have yet to know about.
But in your absence I am both you and me. Fingers finally gouge into my slit, quivering and swirling to make me tremble and cry out. I suck the juices from my fingers, dip them into a pool of spit under my tongue and replace them, roughly fingering my cunt and sighing as they ream and slither over every tender inch of me. I imagine you demanding tonight, taking me in spite of the pain of bottoming out deep inside of me and relishing my cries.
I tilt to my side, raising my ass a little to slide a finger behind me, only wishing my finger were a tongue, along my smooth crack to the little ring of muscle that my husband won't touch. Though I would bury my face into your back door covered with the soft hairs of a young man, toss your salad you called it, silly name for it, and French kiss you, there; he won't touch mine; we don't talk of my needs, even though over the years I have shoved it at him and begged in little sighs, willing to give him what some men dream of. What he would hear if he used me there. But he won't, so I use myself.
I rim myself, again wet the finger and taste only the towelette. I push and begin to probe with the tip, my nail cutting into the sensitive skin as the tight muscle gives way to my persistence. Back to my mouth and now an earthy taste, my other hand teasing feather-light and fast over my clit and lips.
My finger is deep in my back door, always inexplicably wet with my desire, the smooth rings of muscle I feel punctuated with dirty specks. I have to pull out again for more moisture. The baby oil is hidden in the downstairs bathroom in the back of the vanity with a ribbed dildo.
Do I get up and temporarily ruin the mood to become more intense, or do I just get it over with, massage my pussy and erupt? I feel adventurous. I make a deal with you; if I get up I must do something new for you.
Jumping from the warmth of the bed I run to the bathroom. Even in the dark my hands know my kit. I run back to the bed, my heart throbbing in my ears as I fumble with the drawstring on the royal blue velvet bag, remove the ribbed plastic dildo and slip it far into my mouth to warm it. The pliable shaft is cold and I hold it there, sliding it in and out as if I were trying to take you as deeply as possible as I gag myself for your pleasure on your twenty-something manhood. I pop open the lube and with my finger squirt and spread it like olive oil the length of the dildo.
Pulling back my legs again, angling my hips upward to receive you, I find my entrance and nudge my it with the head, spinning the tip as I push it into me in one long, slow descent punctuated by a tremulous whimper as it slides into my depths and displaces the air from my lungs. You are so big, so long.
Stretching my legs out I slip a pillow between my legs as if it is you, but in an impossible position, two fingers slipped between the pillow and me, now firmly twisting and tapping my clit as my body jerks in response. My head spins, my cries now a soft, high moan with each breath, your bitch impaled on your cock, one hand clutching at my hair as I sigh with pleasure. I feel so alive, so horny that I fear I will scream when I pull the trigger.
"Pull the trigger Corinne" you said last week and I did, a shriek slicing through the quiet house on an otherwise normal Friday afternoon. My god I wailed, your kneeling supplicant in front of the monitor skewered on a plastic spit, my cum trickling through my fingers down the sides of the stub of the dildo protruding from my pussy. Dripping onto the rug below me, the spot now dried but faintly visible, still brings a quiet smile to my lips.
"oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh" was all I could type with a hand haphazardly laid on the keyboard, my head bowed as the orgasm seared through my body like a shot of straight booze to my veins.
"Are you wet now baby?"
I was, so wet that I thought I pissed on the rug until I came to my senses and realized it was my cum.
"So how do you taste" you said, leading me like an erotic guru and your toy for the afternoon, my wet fingers typing out the description of how my pussy tasted. They went to my mouth tentatively, clear drops still hanging from my knuckles, as I opened up and sucked myself clean for you: "like clean pussy" I typed, trying to sound as vulgar as you sometimes do.
It's building now again, building when I can't scream, building with the sensations from my fingers on my clit and the dildo insistently bumping against a back wall maybe my doctor has seen, coming together like quicksilver pooling in my belly. I make sure the second pillow is there when I cry out.
The dildo is overloading me with sensations as I lose the control I thought I had and an orgasm sweeps through me, turning my guts to liquid as I pull my legs up and cum in a little gush, the dildo pushed out as I lose my grip on the pillow and my pussy contracts in response to the wave. It rests there, the tip now partway in the base of my pussy, and me feeling oddly empty from its passing.
"Now taste me Corinne."
Not that; it's a dildo, I say to the disembodied voice as my need overrides any common sense. Is there ever common sense in sex? Three fingers curl into me and I ride them as I reach down and grab it with my free hand. The slippery head is beginning to cool in the air as I find the base and grab it, fingers now deeper in me as the first sensations begin to tingle in my groin.
Now or never. I open my mouth and cock my head back like the cheapest whore in the world, that one who will do anything for a price, filthy things. I bring to my lips your cock, once planted in my cunt, you bastard, making me do this to a stick of cold plastic. I spin out of control as simultaneously I begin to cum and slide the dildo deep into my mouth, into my throat, gagging but holding it together for you through the taste of the smooth as silk fluid on the probe, wanting it to be your warm cock squirting a jet of cum to the back of my tongue that I can swallow like a good cocksucker. God I want to suck your cock.
I groan, the noise choked by the plug in my throat as again I cum in waves, biting down on the rubber jammed into my throat as my hand is sprinkled with fluid from my depths, running down my fingers and my ass as I force myself to hold your rubber meat.
"My sweet slut" I want to hear as you watch me slide the dildo from my mouth and let it fall to the side. "Kiss me" you say in my head as I lay there exhausted, now able to sleep, fifteen unsatisfying minutes of clean-up still ahead of me.
Returning to my solitary bed I hug the spare pillow to my sated body and glance at the clock through exhausted eyes as I drift off to sleep with the taste still in my mouth, imagining your swollen cock laying along the crack of my ass as you hold my back: 3:32. Two more days until Friday afternoon.