Some Day, All This Will Be Yours Ch. 02

God! I feel horny tonight... Positively concupiscent!

(Don't you just love discovering new words? Just think... That word has been lying there for decades - centuries, even! - stuck between the pages of some dusty dictionary, meaning its heart out, and just aching to be taken out and used once in a while. Jealous as hell of 'horny' (or 'randy', if you're a Brit), which get all the attention. Well, little word (big word, actually): now's your chance... Take wings and fly! I'm re-introducing you to the reading public!)

Do you ever get like that... horny? (I mean concupiscent, of course). Cat on a hot tin roof - that's me, this evening. Lonely, too; and restless, you know? All my best nerve endings seem to be firing at once. Maybe I'm ovulating.

I can't sit still. I just prowl around this empty house looking for I don't know what: Relief? Company? Sex? All three, and then some? Yes, please! I don't often get this way, but when I do... Watch out! I may not be entirely responsible for my actions.

If you've read the first installment of this autobiography, you know me pretty well already; so it shouldn't shock you to know that right now I'd settle for either gender (or both); any number (equal to or greater than one); any age (equal to or greater than eighteen, or I wouldn't be able to tell you about it here); and any race, creed, or color.

Even any political affiliation! Although that last one could be a tad difficult: we might have to agree not to talk too much, before or afterwards. Either that, or there's always that roll of duct tape I took with me in Saving Miss Stacey. See how desperate I am?

From my sorry condition, you can probably guess that his brother left last week. (If you don't know whose brother I'm talking about, French Letters will fill you in.)

What is it with that family? They keep leaving me, dammit! He's chosen his college for next Fall, completed the application, and gone off to spend the winter working in a ski lodge in Colorado. As he said when he left: it's a tough job, but someone's got to do it! All that sun and snow, crawling with beautiful people looking for new adventures and vacation romances!

With his new-found confidence (not to mention some of the tricks he's learned from me since he turned up on my doorstep last May), I can just imagine the string of lucky girls he's going to entertain after hours! God, how I'd love to be in his bed beside them! Or beside anyone, for that matter. Not fussy; not this evening.

Actually, writing seems to be helping a little, so maybe I'll stop my prowling and whining for a while, and talk to you instead. Got a minute? Let me just adopt my favorite writing position - you know: naked, lounging in bed with laptop on midriff, nestling against my pussy... There!

Now, what shall we talk about?

Oh, I know! You'll love this! (Well, I did). He'd been with me for a little over a month - the brother, that is - and with my dear, generous bf's blessing from faraway Paris, we'd continued to sleep together ever since I'd overcome his shyness and turned his life around by taking his virginity (Another one of those tough jobs!). By this time, he was getting really good in bed, and I was enjoying that wonderful feeling of wellbeing that a girl gets from regular fucking. Know what I mean? I do hope so.

How did I feel about him, apart from being grateful for all the sex? I'd often asked myself the same question, mostly at times when he didn't have his lovely prick buried balls-deep in my vagina. (I find that gets in the way of clear thinking, don't you?) The best answer I could come up with was that he felt to me like a younger brother... a brother with benefits, that is!

I knew where my heart was... Still do, for that matter: in a rooftop garret in Paris with a guy who, at least according to one version, had narrowly escaped death at the hands of a sex-starved French psychopath! (You can find all the gory details of that little episode in 'French Letters', too.)

Anyway, there we were, the two of us: in bed, both naked, of course. Actually, he wasn't completely naked; he was wearing a blindfold. He'd read a draft of the story that I was working on at the time: 'My Last Will and Testicle', which has a scene where one of the participants in a threesome is blindfolded, and he wanted to see how it felt to have sex like that: blindfolded, I mean. So he asked me to blindfold him, which I was happy to do... solely in the interests of research, you understand.

Then I undressed him, got him thoroughly hard using my lips and tongue - never difficult, and always enjoyable - and then I straddled his hips like the backward cowgirl I'm not. I sank back onto his rigid prick (God! I simply love that feeling!), watching myself in the big mirror that I keep at the foot of the bed especially for occasions like this. I watched us screw for a while, then closed my eyes to concentrate on his warm penis throbbing and twitching inside me.

I don't know what it was that made me open my eyes again - maybe I'd heard something? - but when I did, whom should I see standing in the bedroom doorway, but my dear, sweet, sexy aunt. She had one finger pressed to her smiling lips as she silently watched us fucking. Yes, this was the same aunt I told you about in Chapter 1. She's the only aunt I sleep with, just in case you're wondering if I keep a whole stable of them. I'd not gotten around to fixing that doorbell, and anyway she has the key to my front door as well as the one to my heart, so she had probably just let herself in.

I hadn't seen her in months. I knew she'd been traveling, but I didn't even know she was back in the country, so seeing her standing there in the doorway was a shock, and not only because I was in the middle of being fucked: In flagrante delicto, you might say, if you were showing off your command of Latin.

There's not much we don't know about one another - at least when it comes to sex - so I didn't promptly scream, or blush, or even reach for something to cover myself with. In fact, I blew her a silent kiss, locked eyes with her, and continued to buck on his prick and finger my clit. Blatant, you think? I suppose it was, but it's not the first time she's watched me getting fucked... or vice versa, for that matter.

I guess I must have a streak of exhibitionism in me somewhere - I remember the thrill I got from masturbating for Adonis and Aphrodite that time in France, and fucking al fresco in full view of the local farmer - because having her watch me grinding my pussy down onto his long prick excited me above and beyond. Also, it didn't hurt that as I worked my way up to an orgasm, she began to strip, standing right there in the doorway. I know her sweet body pretty well - we've been lovers for more than five years now - but the sight of her nakedness never fails to thrill me. And the growing realization that she was planning to join us in bed didn't hurt either.

She unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged it off her shoulders, then reached back to undo her bra. I'm familiar with breasts - hell, I should be: I've got a pair of my own! - so why does the sight of hers always make my heart race? As I watched her shake them loose from their confinement, memories of burying my face between them and licking little circles around her nipples flooded into my mind.

Naked to the waist and with eyes that smiled into mine, she unzipped her slacks and let them fall around her ankles. Next, she slid a hand down inside her panties, reached back between her legs and pushed a finger in between the lips of her pussy. What little doubt there was in my mind that she was deliberately stoking the fires of my arousal was removed when she withdrew the finger in question, inhaled its musky smell, and then slipped it between her other lips, all without taking her eyes from my face.

I came with one of those lovely whole-body orgasms that reach right down to the tips of your fingers and toes. You know the kind? Over the years, I've become quite a connoisseur of orgasms - my own, that is; how much can you ever know about someone else's? - and for me, no two are ever quite the same.

Some are entirely physical, some almost entirely emotional; most are a mixture of the two.

Some are clitoral, some (rarely) are just vaginal; most are a mixture of the two, with nipples thrown in.

Some are superficial, some plumb sensual depths that you didn't even know you had until they were plumbed.

Some are local, some are whole-body, some are global, and some - if you're really lucky - are universal, stretching out in time and space right up to and over the event horizon (whatever that is. Don't ask me; I'm a Latin scholar!)

This wasn't one of those - I've only ever experienced those with him, that guy in Paris - but it was delicious, nonetheless: full of brotherly love, and topped with dollops of exhibitionism and voyeurism, like twin spoonfuls of whipped cream.

By the time I floated back to earth, my sweet aunt was naked, raising her eyebrows and making comical gestures to suggest that I might want to yield the catbird seat to her. Evidently she was in the mood for a blind date.

Had this been my real boyfriend I was sitting on, I'd have hunkered down on his prick to keep it all to myself, but that's what love does to you, isn't it? (Maybe you saw our exchange of comments after the first chapter of this autobiography? I intend to keep those two apart for as long as I possibly can.)

Selfish? But you already know that about me, don't you?

Luckily, this wasn't quite so complicated. Gently and silently, so as not to alert him to what was happening, I let his still-rigid prick slide out of my vagina, and moved out of her way.

We kissed, like ships that pass in the night.

(Say what? Note to self: Work on your similes, for crying out loud! That one sucks! 'Kissing ships', indeed. They'd probably sink!)

Swinging a leg over his supine body, she took my place facing the other way, and - with a sigh of satisfaction - eased his slippery prick into her cunt. He probably thought I'd just reversed my position in the saddle, and I wondered when he'd realize that he was now buried in a different vagina. She's three years older than me, and although she hasn't had kids, she's not quite as tight as I am.

What? You want to know how I know? Well, once when we were making love, I felt inside us both with the same two calibrated fingers - that's how!

Of course, he knew I'd just come, and that tends to loosen a girl's vagina, once the contractions die away. And she hadn't had the benefit of any of our foreplay, so all-in-all we probably felt pretty similar.

Anyway, as far as I could tell, he didn't realize we'd switched cunts on him. He put his hands on her hips and, having felt me come moments before, evidently reckoned that it was now his turn. I watched spellbound as she lifted herself a little to give him room to thrust upwards into her. Playing catch-up, she began to twist both nipples between her fingers to get herself up to speed, and lovingly sought my eyes again.

We'd shared a guy before - maybe I'll tell you about that sometime - and we both enjoyed the added frisson provided by triangles. I leant across from where I was standing beside the bed, grasped her naked shoulders, and kissed her intimately as she climbed her own private mountain of pleasure.

They came almost together. From past experience, I knew they were both vocal and as their orgasms approached, I wondered how this part of their drama would play out. I'm sure she thought he was my once and future boyfriend, and he thought she was me. This scene was as full of mistaken identities as a Shakespearian comedy!

But nothing diminished the ecstasy of the moment. Her lips glued to mine, she began to moan as the waves of feeling spread throughout her body.

I often moan too, but not quite like she does, and I felt him momentarily break rhythm, as if to say: 'What the fuck?' But either he concluded he was mistaken, or else he just didn't care; or maybe he was beyond coherent thought by that time - you know how that is? - because he simply intensified his attack on her body, thrusting his prick up into her vagina, as if seeking the north-west passage to her throat.

He came with a shout that rivaled hers at the beach that time, pumping his semen into her with a series of powerful ejaculatory thrusts that lifted her clear off the bed. She responded in the way I knew so well, her hands on his chest and her shouts - unmistakably not mine - mingling with his dying cries as they shared this moment of passion.

He ripped off his blindfold to see whom he'd just fucked, and - bewildered - found me standing beside the bed.

'I see you've met my aunt,' I said, smiling down at him.

'Er...' An echo of his former shyness returned.

She looked down from her perch, enjoying the fading waves of pleasure that were piercing her body like the rays of the setting sun (How the hell do I know? But at least it's a better simile), and said:

'Hi! I'm her aunt. Pleased to meet you.'

'And I'm speechless! Likewise, I'm sure.'

'And I'm loving every minute of this!' I said.

'Hello, Speechless. You must be the boyfriend I've heard so much about.'

'I wish!' he said.

It takes a lot to knock my aunt off her stride, but this did it. She looked from him to me and back again: reassessing, double-taking, and eventually penny-dropping.

'You're not?'

'I'm his baby brother,' said his not-so-baby brother.

'Jesus! The fully-grown version must be something else!'

'Trust me, he is,' I said, smiling at them both.

***

Oh, shit! Recalling that episode has made me even hornier (Sorry, liberated word! More... what was it? More concupiscent, that's it!). So, what the hell can I do now?

Silly question, really. What would you do?

All right, clear the decks. This is going to be a no-holds-barred-give-it-everything-you've-got masturbation.

First, lock and bolt the front door. I don't want any unexpected visitors walking in on me this time.

Next, open a decent bottle of wine. Not your everyday plonk; tonight, I need something special. Well, what I really need is that sorry bastard who's skulking in Paris, dipping his wick god knows where. But in his absence, I'll have to settle for a nice Argentinian Cabernet. They're best known for their Malbecs, of course, but the Mendoza Cabernets are really good value (Oops! When does a personal opinion become product promotion?).

Don't scoff! I can hear the oenophiles among you saying: 'That's special?' (And I can hear the rest of you saying: 'Forget the fucking wine; just get on with the sex!' Be patient; it's coming...)

We all live at the point where our aspirations intersect with our means, don't we? And my means are pretty mean. You think I wouldn't drink first-growth French Bordeaux if I could afford them? Think again! Hell, I can get wet just thinking about Châteaux Léoville-Barton or Cos d'Estournel, and they're only second growths! But at least I've tasted them, so I know what I'm missing! The others are merely rumors...

Next, draw the curtains. My cottage is really isolated, but I once caught this kid from the local High School with his pants around his ankles peering in my living-room window. He claimed he was lost. 'In more ways than one,' I told him.

Next, clothes. Do I want any? You know I love being naked, but have you ever felt terry-cloth rubbing against your nipples? I'm no seamstress, but I had a ball making this terry-cloth T-shirt that fits me like a glove and rubs against my tits every time I move. That's the one for tonight, I think. And below the waist? Nada! I want to see my ass and pussy in the mirror, as I watch myself masturbating.

Now, decision time. How do I want to do this? Lying on my bed in front of the mirror with Paul Simon between my legs? (You'll need to read Chapter 1 if you don't understand what I'm talking about). No; much as I love Paul, I need something specialer tonight (Well, it should be a word!)

I know! A couple of years ago, during a dry spell in my normally bustling sex life, I made a sort of sling that I can hang from a door lintel and sit astride. It's also made of terry-cloth (surprise!), and it's strong enough to carry my whole weight (about 110 pounds soaking wet, since you asked). I ride it like a hobby-horse, with this thick rope of toweling between my legs.

If I rock backwards, it separates my ass cheeks and rubs my entire crack and asshole, which is lovely; and if I rock forwards, it pushes in between my pussy lips and rubs my clit, which is even lovelier. And if I rock back and forth... Well, you get the picture! It's never failed me yet... Now, where did I put it after the last time I used it?

***

Okay, now we're all set. Imagine me, if you will... Oh, I simply hate that phrase! Why on earth do I use it, then? Well, some phrases are just infectious, like STDs - know what I'm saying?

See? There goes another one! Ugh! Expunge them both from my vocabulary!

Let's try again... Imagine me, sitting in my sling (hoping the door lintel won't give way), dressed only in a white terry-cloth T-shirt that fits me like a glove, and sipping - never gulping! - my wine. I've moved my cheval mirror so I can watch myself in the saddle. Appropriate for a girl on horseback, don't you think? (Work it out for yourself.) Ride him, cowgirl!

None of this will be any good if I can't find a good movie to run through my mind as I rock back and forth. What'll it be tonight: memory or fantasy? Boyfriend, brother, aunt, someone I haven't met yet? Decisions, decisions...

I know! I've never told you how we met - my bf and I - have I? Oh, this one's a real doozy!

I'd just graduated from college, with a Liberal Arts degree and a minor in Latin. Extremely well-educated... and totally unemployable. For some reason, even the UN doesn't want simultaneous English/Latin translators these days. Believe me - I called them and asked.

No one had ever warned me that the gravy train of youth would one day reach the end of the line: All change!

So I changed. I was a lot luckier than some: I had a grandmother whom I adored, and - god knows why - she seemed to like me in return. So much so that - as you already know if you've been paying attention - she left me her house in her will: a ramshackle old place, but at least I didn't get wet when it rained, which is more than could be said for some of my classmates. I offered up silent thanks to her every night... particularly when it was raining.