Absolutely Gorgeous

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Absolutely Gorgeous

 

I want you and miss you; I hate that you’re inside and I’m out here. I’ve been reading for an hour. The sky keeps getting bluer, and the air around me warmer.

More sticky. Like the mess between my legs.

I wasn’t seeking arousal — was hoping to flee it. But what could I expect: I fled to the balcony for escape, not because I wanted us to part, but because I know you’re busy. You’re behind, and can’t afford distraction; not even when it’s me.

Your deadlines loom like a fanged serpent.

But I can’t help it; seeing you flustered makes me hot. It’s not that I like seeing you upset — I don’t — but there’s something in the way you take command that gets me all gooey.

I came outside, then nested myself deep in the cushions of my second-favorite sofa. I keep telling myself that I’m reading, but after one humid hour I’m not sure I remember a page.

I’ve been thinking of you, hungry to be your distraction.

Now I’m hot, too hot, and can’t turn my mind off.

Our balcony is a thousand degrees, making me long to soothe the mess between my legs. I could use my fingers, then maybe when I’m done, you’ll be finished with your work and ready for me.

I’ll ache until then.

I try to quell my dull throbbing, but go from sticky to stickier as I imagine myself stepping through our sliding glass door to distract you. I want to feel the pleasant breeze brushing my nipples rather than the thin cotton of my simple, striped shirt.

Each wind’s kiss reminds me that I want you inside me.

I lick the back of my teeth, hungry for you to come out here and climb my waiting body. You don’t, and won’t, so I look left to make sure Mrs. Madison from next door, with her low drawl and wilted eyeliner, isn’t outside watering her hydrangea. Then I look to my right, wondering if I’ll see Jason watching me through his kitchen window, pretending to wash dishes while I read.

He does this sometimes. You know because I usually tell you.

Often while we’re fucking.

No one is watching, so I pull off my shorts, then my panties.

My pussy is bald and sticky and waiting for your touch. You won’t come out, won’t stop plugging numbers into a spreadsheet that can and should wait.

Instead I’m waiting, picturing you wrapping your arm behind my back, lifting my pelvis to the tip of your expectant dick, then holding it still and making me wait, forcing me to ache through long and pregnant seconds until you push past my soft, puffy lips and ease yourself inside me, gathering speed and rhythm until your motion feels like magic.

There’s no Mrs. Madison and no Jason; still I feel anxious.

Nerves crackle my skin.

I stand from the couch and peel off my shirt. My breasts aren’t large, but I think they’re perfect. Every man I’ve ever been with has said so. You tell me most; whisper it always.

They feel good in my hand, I wonder how they feel for you. I brush my skin and fondle myself, teasing my nipples before sending my hand between my legs, parting my knees, nudging one against the cushion before draping the other down onto the ground.

I use my fingers on my pussy, leaving my nipples exposed, pointing as if in accusation. I spread my pussy lips, then make tiny circles inside with my pointer. My ass clenches as my hole starts to leak. Circles widen, gathering speed until the teasing is too much, and I start slipping my finger in and out of my hole.

I wiggle while I do so. My lips part, and my breath grows heavy. I feel amazing, alone and fueled by the threat of discovery. I push my body hard against the couch, lightly bucking, plunging my single digit in and out of my hole, now faster.

My moans are insistent as I remove my finger and return to circles, now with a third one added.

The coast is clear, but it won’t be for long. Mrs. Madison and Jason will surely both hear me. I sound like I’m choking.

I use my left hand to spread my pussy lips wider and the right to widen my circles. My fingers go from sticky to soppy. I love that I can smell the sweet juice as I make it.

I’m writhing all over the couch, swiveling position so my elbows are deep in the cushions, and my legs are spread close to their wingspan. My head’s pressed against the back cushion, tilted toward the sky. My eyes are closed, my nipples hard and throbbing.

I imagine you opening the glass door and walking toward me. Then, because that thought is almost too much, I stop rubbing my cunt and start to again shove fingers inside me, almost violently, pretending they’re you.

As if startled, I suddenly fly up on my seat until I’m sitting straight with my back to the cushion. I might be seen, and am certain someone will hear.

But I don’t care so I go faster.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah …

I’m still pretending you’re with me, jabbing myself with a finger as the wind whips and blows about my body. I’m screaming and moaning; chewing my lip, pretending you’re on me.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah …

I moan louder as memories flood me, like scent in the breeze. I catch one, and it’s followed by another. I sniff the air and get wetter as I smell me. I croak another moan, and my scent grows stronger.

I’m everywhere. My pungency’s on the air like juice on my fingers. I beg my mind for another memory. It gives me a favorite:

We are on the beach and I say no, I don’t want to.

I’ve never refused you before, but you’ve never asked me to fuck in the sand. I don’t want to, and I don’t want you to know why.

It’s not a secret, just a memory with thorns.

I hate having sex in the sand. It’s uncomfortable. Not just during, but after. It looks good in movies and pictures, but the gritty reality digs into the pleasure.

I’ve done it, but not with you; I don’t want you to know that.

I wish it had been you, and if I could make it so I would, but I can’t, and something inside me will die if you know. So I pull you to the sand and encourage you to billow my long, creamy cotton dress with the teeny straps up in a bunch around my thighs.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah …

But you don’t.

Instead, you strip your shirt, unbuttoning buttons one at a time. You hook your hand in the bend of my knees and lift me, then drape your shirt like a blanket beneath me. You lay me down gently, then kiss me. Only after I smile do you billow my long, creamy cotton dress with the teeny straps up in a bunch around my thighs.

You lick me softly until I cum once, then pull your body up smiling. I unbuckle your pants, pull out your cock, then wrap my hands loosely around your base and reach for your head with my lips.

You pull yourself away and say, “Still your turn.”

You take me gently, pushing your tip past my puckering, pink lips, holding me up by my legs, above the sand with my dress and your shirt beneath me. You fuck me slowly, somehow making me crash harder than ocean waves, without getting a grain of sand inside me.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah …

OHMYFUCKINGGOD!!!

Remembering how hard you made me cum then helps me cum harder right now. I pinch my left nipple hard enough for the throbbing pleasure to ring in my ears as a fourth orgasm chases a third and shakes me from inside.

A warm sensation slithers under my skin until it settles like a whispers’s finish, and I find myself drifting down from the high.

Slowly. 

As if heaven is taking her time.

When I open my eyes Jason is staring. His gaze shatters like falling glass, dropping his eyes from me to the dishes. I giggle, feeling the wind as it kisses my skin, this time in farewell.

I lie back for another moment, enjoying the nip at my sticky clit, feeling the light throb from my still-hard nipples as the wind brushes by and brings sharp pleasure to my sticky, bald pussy.

My flesh feels amazing, but incomplete.

I stand from the couch, then slide the glass door and slip inside. I creep up behind you. You see my reflection before you feel me and lightly jump, like I caught you watching X-Art. But you’re not watching X-Art; you only have spreadsheets before you. I hold out my hand.

“Still my turn,” I say.

the end.

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