Queenie

The senior girls would always come by the little downtown mall after school let out, fresh off from eighth period, smelling like notebooks and sunshine, browsing the aisles all straightbacked with nice postures and that plump youthful meat bouncing around in the ass of their jeanshorts. Late afternoons before my wife came home would find me hard at work on myself in the living room, sun slanting in the blinds, imagining those hard little forms grinding their plumpnesses down onto my prick, me shooting my hips upwards as I thought of the idea, intensely aroused by this new and forbidden fruit. I imagined most of them as virgins, particularly one gangly brunette I named Queenie with beautiful dark legs who would come into the record store sometimes still dressed in her soccer cleats and high socks, hints of babyfat which age had not yet etched off her cheeks (I knew her to be eighteen at least, she'd dropped her license and credit card once). I would try to save her, this my brown haired queen, till I knew I was close, and I would imagine those long legs all wrapped in a tangle around me as we fucked, that sweet face leaning back to netherland and calling out in her slight bracesmaid lisp, oh take me, oh take me. Thinking of her dimpled face twisted in anxious lust would electrify the tip of my prick and my hard-jerking hand motions would rush my spunk to its quick exit: the side of the coffee table, the rug, the low ceiling sometimes on the more intense days. Recently I had begun to come harder jerking off to my queen than I did climaxing at the hands (or loins) (or mouth) (or cleavage) of my wife.

It had been a humid, predawn Monday morning in the height of August summer when I first found out Ellie, my wife, was cheating on me. Both of us were up too early, which was not unusual, as both of us were undiagnosed insomniacs. I stumbled blearily out the back of our little one bedroom apartment to the porch to read, dressed in nothing but boxers. I found her already there, lounging in the humidity, still dressed in the tight, form fitting dress she'd passed out in the night before after seeing some colleagues for drinks.

My wife was once a beautiful woman -- she even sort of looks like what you might expect Queenie to look like in a few years, when she's older, save for that drawn-out exhaustion in her eyesockets -- yet now there was something almost haggard to her, something beaten. Age had not been kind to her face, though she was not yet thirty. Her thin form she kept, yet she had lost slightly too much weight to really be gorgeous. Seeing her there, then, in the predawn light, her long pale legs splayed out, her brown hair undone and carelessly cascading to the right side of her head, condensation forming on her forehead, her breasts creamy in the holdings of her bra (her dresses always showed too much cleavage, though it was and always had been her strongest attribute), I became overwhelmed by a cold, thoughtless lust. I tried to mask this, as I felt nothing at that moment for her emotionally, only an angry fascination with the triangular dip in her dress at her chest.

"Morning," she said, opening one pale eye fully, heaving her breasts slightly. Intentionally, I imagined.

"How was last night?" I asked.

"You see that Pirates game last night?" she said. "Unbelievable."

"Were you the only woman there again?" I ignored her in turn.

"It was alright," she said. "I'm just tired and can't sleep."

"You're always tired and can't sleep," I said.

I hobbled over to her, still groggy, reaching down and taking the paper from her lap. As if answering me, she narrowed her shoulders sexily and her boobs crushed together. I kept my eye for a second too long on that milky collision instead of turning to the paper in my hand.

"You always this horny in the mornings?" she said casually, my face buried in the sports as I stood.

"Huh?"

She nodded to my half erection, tenting my boxers at a downward yet obvious angle. "We never have sex in the mornings." She spoke it like a detached observation of innocuous consequence, the way one might mention the Jones' have only had two cars in their driveway this past week, as opposed to the typical three. Her statement was irrelevant anyway, we never had sex anymore period, never mind the mornings. I remembered drunkenly fucking her one Saturday night, could've been a week or a month ago, no way of knowing. I'd fallen asleep while still inside her, and she must've passed out too because when I woke my prick was woodening against the slick inside of her cushy thigh. I had forced my way back in her re-tightened cunt -- a moment of clarity amidst a night of three too many dark lagers, and spunked deep inside her after just a few minutes of thrusting. She never woke, lost in a rare heavy sleep.

"There's never time," I said, but that wasn't true and our insomnia proved it. She grabbed my shaft through the fabric, rough and tight in her palm, pulling me the few steps closer to her. Ellie had always had a hell of a grip, she knew that getting a guy off well required some muscle. Her fingers were small, her wrists petite, but both powerful, the result of a long career of strange fitness habits and an alternative yoga program which gave her that distinctive wiriness.

The blood pumped freely to my groin and I felt myself stiffen, the resulting twitch of my length causing her to grin and look up at me.

"I do love feeling you grow in my hands," she said softly, as if apologizing for this admittance. "It's so sexy."

I had just come to the point where words were beginning to grow difficult to find, her whisperings irrelevant. The humidity began to coat my skin, gave my chest a shine by the light of the porchlamp. Instead of yammering I kept silent as she leaned her head forward and began lathering kisses over my boxers. Her still-lipsticked mouth puckered the fabric, and I could feel the moistness soaking from her saliva against my prick.

"Ellie," I said, perturbed by this teasing, aroused far more than I wanted to be. My erection now shot out at ninety degrees and rose steadily in tune with the ticks of my heartbeat and bloodflow.

"There's something I need to tell you," she said, her words muffled slightly by my crotch. She had her hand between my legs now, fondling my testicles a little too roughly. By instinct, accident, I jerked my hips forward, slapped her in the nose with my hardening prick.

"Oh?" I said between breaths, trying to maintain composure, ignoring my impulse to drop the lowered newspaper and knead her breasts between my hands.

"You have to promise you won't get mad," she said. She had one finger under my boxers now, rubbing a firm line with her index from the back of my perineum near my anus to the middle of my nutsack. I thought of Queenie, those milelong legs up in the air, knee-high socks pressed against my chest. My prick slanted sharply upwards, the engorged stiffness enrapturing my entire crotch.

"What is it?" I asked.

With her teeth she carefully unbuttoned the fly of my boxers and pulled my now near-vertical prick from its trappings.

"I've been sleeping with Harry Davis from IT, at the bank, for the past eight months."

Things went silent for a time. She waited for my reaction with my dick hanging by her lips. She wouldn't just take it, I slowly understood. She wanted a clear exchange of values. Forgiveness, justification, must be earned by any blowing she would deign to do. Even after bringing a shamed man to full staff -- shamed by her own doings no less. Mine was a penis gorged by hope as much as lust. In her orifices I sought something else, I knew. Not blind lust. Not blind lust.

I pushed myself into her mouth, she shut her eyes as she took it and closed her lips around to complete the vacuum sucking effect. No choice for her there. She eyed me briefly. She had that spoiled look of a woman trying to be a teenage girl again. Seeking innocence where there was none. She was trying to will tears to come but that sadness was not there.

Some of her hair came down from her bangs and curtained the part of me that didn't fit inside her mouth. The way it tickled the flesh there made me faintly dizzy with the stream of fantasies that suddenly became desirable.

Exhibit A: Ellie hanging by her wrists from the ceiling of a dark basement and wearing a dark leather one-piece that wedgied her pussy and asscrack. Me slapping that leather tightened flesh between her legs with my open palm, her calling out to the dark.

Exhibit B: Walking down a city block with Ellie, slamming her over a metal café table and tearing the fabric of the jeans from her ass before penetrating her rectum. Cumming and then fucking her rectum with a stapped-on baseball bat to get my erection back up.

Exhibit C: Being anywhere and penetrating her rectum. Oh the sweet sensation of nothing.

As we breathed there that humid air, man and wife, her teeth on my cock, I contemplated that her penultimate failure. After dishonesty, a refusal of the ass. I'd had it once, from a tiny Vietnamese swimmer girl, senior year in college, long before I'd met Ellie. She was nineteen and on hallucinogenic mushrooms with her two sisters. I was twenty-two and drunk and wanted to stick my dick somewhere up in a warm spot inside a girl. I had no idea what that really meant. Vanessa was all of 4'10 and ninety-seven pounds and she felt featherweight straddling my lap while we made out on her tiny couch. She twirled a plant stem in her fingers and told me that her guardian angel said the only way the mushrooms would work is if she had an analgasm. It was that simple. I tugged her jeans back a little and shoved aside her panties. Her asshole was like a microscopic crater, narrower than a pinky finger. Oh that sweet sensation of nothing. Where a vagina was rubbery, pulling, suctioning, a rectum simply was nothing. An iron ring of puckered flesh and the intense heat of bowels and nothing.

Ellie was waiting for me to say something. I didn't. I began to thrust, slowly at first, watching myself disappear into her face, her eyes shut tight, my scrotum slapping lightly against her chin. Her teeth grazed my skin ever slightly. Soon I gave up this gentle lapping and threw myself onto the ground, my prick still in her mouth, holding her head under me and full out humping her face, fucking her head into the moist earth. She made loud noises stifled by my manhood, I heard her gag as I shoved my cock down the back of her throat. I found the point where I could make the deepest thrusts and managed to fit in to the hilt, holding the position with my hips pinioned and grinding for a few more seconds before squirting loose a sharp rope of cum into the back of her throat. She had her hands on my legs, trying to push me off, but I kept myself pressed down firmly upon her until I was sure I'd discharged every drop from my prick. When I was done I turned and walked swiftly back inside the house to take a shower. That would be the day I would finally have the courage to talk to Queenie.