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In a small apartment with a bedroom and a bathroom and a closet and a mattress there lives a couple. The walls are white and there are paintings strewn about on them. Each is of something different – a dragon, a bird, a skull, a flower. Each is drawn by the same person and has ‘K.H.’ artsily scribbled into the right hand corner. Their King size bed takes up a majority of the room in which they lay naked, tangled in each others arms. The sheets are in disarray and there are socks and bras and inside-out-panties-still-attached jeans tossed about carelessly between the entry and where they are now. Obviously there were still parties to be had when they left the club last night.
He is asleep and she is watching him, a half smile all the while. When she looks at him, it makes her heart swell and sing and do the silly things they sing about in love songs. When he touches her skin-on-skin it feels like the most amazing thing in the world. A photograph on the nightstand beside her shows a story of the bride and a groom a couple of years hence. The two in the image have that proverbial sparkle in the eye and seem to be unable to take their gazes yes off one another. She looks at him that way now while he lays atop her.
He stirs when she moves out from under him, though she’s as gentle as she can be. She almost fully escapes but he catches her. With a sleepy flop of his arm he swings his hand up on her hip. She turns to face him so that she is curled up on her side. His large hands fit well around her curves. He lifts his hand and traces her stretch-marks with the pads of his fingers. He smiles a comfortable and smug smile; the way a boy smiles when he has earned a great prize, all the while keeping his eyes closed. Her body is clearly committed to his memory. It is but a roadmap ingrained in his head, his tongue, the tips of his fingers, and his sweet, sweet cock; Notably, that also stirs a bit when he touches her. She doesn’t want to wake him. She lays still.
When his arm goes slack again and his breathing becomes relaxed she easily slides out from under his hand and rolls off the edge of the mattress. There’s no frame between it and floor so the drop to the hardwood floor is an easy one. She puts on her white cotton, above-the-knee length robe. There are cherries printed on the edges of the pockets and the lining of the opening; The dark reds match her perfectly manicured toenails exactly. Quietly, she tiptoes over and opens the sliding glass door to stride out onto the deck.
The air is foggy and chilled at 6am in San Francisco no matter what time of year it is. It makes her hug her own body for warmth. Responsive ripples across naked flesh rise up as goosebumps. The balcony is a good enough size for the city: about eight feet by eight feet, white-painted wood that overlooks the streets below by three exact matching floors. This leaves two identical above their unit for a total of five, for the sake of imagery. There is a little table, round and perfect for two people. That’s where Jane finds the cigarette and lighter she’d come out here for. The plastic on the outside is wet from the dew, the edges of the pack starting to fall apart from the moisture. She shakes it off and opens the top with a flick of her wrist, one of the two remaining sticks bouncing towards her waiting hand.
There are two chairs out here; they’re the type of chairs one brings camping or fishing with them, cheap and made from a material that promises strength and delivers a comical performance of people falling straight through the sun and weight worn center one day. If all pans out well, it will be one of your guests in them as it tends to be. There are drink holders fashioned perfectly into the shapes of a 12oz can at either end of the armrests and a mesh backing for leaning back into. You know exactly what kind of chair it is.
Jane? Well, she’s up against the rail of the porch facing away from her home, cars zipping by below unawares of her presence. She lights a cigarette and takes a couple of drags. With the smoke-stick between her lips she leans over and looks down towards the street with a sigh. There’s obviously a lot on her mind. It’s not them she’s paying attention to either. If you must know, she’s thinking about last night in the bathroom, and wouldn’t you be if it were you? Though she and Kevin had fucked for merciless hours the night prior, Antalya Escort all she can think of is the ebony locks on the strange woman and her exposed breast. How she’d cupped her own bosom as if to say come, come suck this tit that I hold exposed for you. Those eyes, that skin, that backside as the woman had sauntered off stage…
Even as she thinks about it now, she can’t help but wander her adventurously free hand downward into the folds of her own robe. She takes another drag, stopping only briefly to savor the smoke rolling over her tongue. Her hand is halfway down her breast, the open robe exposing her erected flesh to the stinging oceanside breeze. Under the thin cotton fabric she catches her own surprisingly hard nipple and squeezes it, rolling it back and forth between thumb and finger. It swells larger in response and sends pangs into her groin, all of her body sensitive and tender from being suckled and screwed the night before. The smallest of touches make her rock her hips and sway her body needily.
Although she has just left the naked Kevin in their bed only moments ago, he is not on her mind here and now. Though her own husband is clearly eager to appease her desires, it isn’t he who she is getting wet for this time. She eases her hands down the length of her stomach; past that patch of well-groomed, barely-there hair. Her own fingers rub familiar, knowing circles into her own agonizing pleasure nub.
The tissue there is sore and abused from the lashings of Kevin’s poking and prodding. He always performs gently with her, but even gentle sex causes chafing and swelling when you act on it for long enough at a time. Still, just as she knew it would her clit responds to its masters intentions. With eyes closed she thinks about what would have happened if she’d have called the woman out on the tom-peeping when she saw her. If she had just stopped the festivities of their fornication for but a second to point out to her husband. Maybe, she thinks now, Rita might have wanted to join in.
She imagines what it would be like to have a womans tongue replacing her fingers now with a warm, satiny touch. She wonders how soft the woman’s skin is, and if she can make her squirm like she can for herself. What would her fingers feel like if they touched her here? Would they be equally soft or are they textured, calloused from working the pole at the club? Even when she imagines Rita running her hands up and down the pole it causes a wild tinge in Janes vulva.
Before she knows she is standing there soaked and her groin is on fire, her twat throbbing painfully. There is then and only then a sense of awareness in her that she may be caught at any minute by the people below or one of the neighbors. When this thought occurs, instead of withdrawing, she jams her finger deep into herself all the way to the last knuckle. The liquid-wet sucks her inside thirstily and admits a second finger the same. Suddenly she is the Rita to her own story, ready and willing to be caught though all she has to look at is a memory of her own concoction.
It is all she can do to hold herself up with her elbow on the rail and wobbly knees, her cigarette still clenched tightly in the free hand. There she is on the end of the porch and she’s rubbing suddenly and fiercely away at already engorged skin, fucking herself with wild abandon in the middle of the morning. Her breath is quickening, quivering while she imagines that black hair running over her own naked body, lost between moist crevices, tickling and teasing and oh! What would it smell like? She inadvertently moans loudly at the very thought and has to look back over her shoulder to make sure she hasn’t woken Kevin.
He is still there sleeping, face up now, sprawled out across the bed. The sheets are tangled around his thigh. She believes that his body is the most beautiful thing on earth when she looks at it, and she thinks he’s the most amazing man in the world, so she can’t for the life of her understand why she can’t get that woman’s face out of her head. She can’t understand why she can’t tell him, either, but she feels almost guilty about her own uncertainties.
She’s still in there inside herself with what has become three fingers, sopping wet and on every literal edge she could be on. Now she’s facing him and her thumb is stroking gently at her own Antalya Escort Bayan clit while her fingers probe her insides. Treacherously distracted from her thoughts of Rita by that which is he and her own fears, her hand withdraws despite the cries for release. If cunts cried, hers was singing an operatic tale of abandonment then, of hellfire and hatred and a wanton desire that simply was not being purged. She brings her fingers to her nose and takes a deep breath, wondering once again about Rita’s scents and tastes. Again she sighs, wipes her fingers on the inside of her robe, smashes her cigarette into the ashtray and walks back inside.
Once in she comes to the side of the bed and lets her robe fall in a pile on the floor at her feet. Like a feral cat she crawls across the sheets, ready to pounce on her unaware prey. Lips on his ankles, he doesn’t move. Up his leg she moves, kissing her way up a path that does not wake him up. Further north she ventures and sure enough, when she reaches his prick there is finally some response, but it is only there and it is only half attentive yet. An ambitious tongue ventures to where testicles and shaft meet, sinking slippery saliva into the soft skin. Up, up, up she goes towards with that slick muscle, the underside of her tongue swirling along while she watches his face for response. His eyelashes flitter and his rod rises like a cobra to its charmers song.
More pressure is added to the frenum, more concentration, but it is the long “Mmmmmm… uuuuuuuhhhhh…” uttered by a cock-filled-mouth that returns him to her. His hand comes to rest atop her hair. His groans mirror her hums. The more awake he is, the more eager her tongue searches and her mouth sucks him in. One hand lets fingers wander, edging back and forth gently between his sac and his taint. The other hand grabs his shaft at the base and holds the skin there tight to expose a myriad of nerve endings. He is a bit red and raw from their evening as well. Slowly she guides him back into her mouth but to the right, carefully past her teeth, pressing his tip into the soft warmth of the inside of her cheek. Then, to the other side, letting him stroke the heated crevices inside of her mouth with his tip before sucking him deep into the back of her throat. That wakes him up.
He reaches out with his eyes still closed and pulls her towards him so she sits astride him. It doesn’t take words between them anymore; Nor does it take him opening his eyes more than halfway. He grins and closes them again. Obediently she climbs atop him and lets his giant prick slip easily into her tight but readied pussy. All the way to the hilt she grinds and it makes him moan loudly.
“Ooooh… I love you. You are the most beautiful and perfect girl in the world.” He half says, half cries out in pleasure throes. It makes her blush every time he says it, even if he’s saying it while she’s riding him and shyness should be thrown out the window. Her tits bob and she looks away. He draws her attentions back with his thumb on her clit, “I love you.” More firmly and with open, demanding eyes.
“I love y-…mmm….” The sweet spot is found when she leans towards him and her response is ccut off. The perfect arc rubs the aroused g-spot, each stroke of his swollen corona pressing against her wall. “Yes, yes, fuck yes baby!” When she starts to lose her rhythm from her own upcoming orgasm he grabs her knowingly by the hips and force rocks her up and down his cock. Her tits flop around wildly, her swollen bud is caught between the two of them and the repeated ramming.
They are both treated to hot wet when her juices flow, her jerking body slamming up and down into an orgasm that makes her press her body into his. She clings to him with all of her strength, her body spasming while she cries out in ecstasy. Like all lovers do in the best of stories he comes with her, but he really couldn’t help it with her bucking around up there like she’s in heat. The two of them lay there, unable to do anything but tremble, breathe, and come a few more drops into each others bodies.
“Come shower with me.”
There is little to no talk when the two are under the steam and water. Instead, there are gentle caresses, each taking great care and patience in washing one another. Wherever the water rushes the suds away he places his lips on the area Escort Antalya and gently kisses her flesh. When she washes his shaft she massages him from tip to taint with both hands, thoroughly stroking him clean. It’s their own ritual, this romantic shower-dance. Their hands run soapy fingers under toes, over legs, between cracks and behind ears.
When the two of them are clean, he gets dressed and says his goodbyes. She packs his lunch and promises kisses upon his return. Then, she is alone. With a cup of tea in hand she sits in front of her computer, waving the mouse to wake up her virtual home away from home. A click-click pops up an Excel spreadsheet, half a dozen numbers splayed out onto the screen. She sighs and picks up a piece of paper from the right side of the desk, keying in only one or two more columns before stopping.
Click-click, another window pops up. This time it’s a browser window and at the top right she sets the cursor, typing slow and precisely: “L-O-V-E-S-H” before the search Engine auto-populates the results. She clicks “Love Shaft” and yields a front page:
“Welcome to The Love Shaft: A Gentlemen’s Club. We are located on Broadway in San Francisco, California. Hours are 12pm-3am. Weekly Deals, Monthly Guests. Sunday is Amatuer Night. Win extra cash! Dancers Needed; 18+ Enter!”
There is other random garble about being of a proper age. Of course she clicks the link, where she is taken to a land of 18+ and a realm of “The Girls”. They are all made-up and wearing high shoes and barely there clothing. Predictably, some of them have their tops replaced with their hands or arms or their naked backs turned to the camera so they can do the coy over-the-shoulder glance. Everyone is an actor with a tale to tell. She without a doubt recognizes Rita and Jezika amongst the eight girls. She stares at the picture of the black-haired stranger, wondering once again why she had been watching, or, more importantly, why Jane thought it fit to keep their tiny rendezvous a secret. She is equally wondering over how horny she feels about it all while her husbands seed is still freshly dropping between her thighs.
Rita is on rotation soon, so says the magical screen of knowing. Jane slams down the cover of her laptop, stares at nothing for too long in thought, then reaches her resolution gets up and walks to her closet. Along the way she drops her robe again and stares her hanging clothes in completely naked contemplation. Various things are sorted through, tossed aside and neglected for the next. Every once and awhile she finds a top and tries it on. This entails pulling the fabric over her braless tits, sauntering back and forth and side-to-side in front of a full length mirror wearing only that, then groaning and dropping that article on the floor.
If you ask Jane, she will tell you that her thighs are too large because she doesn’t have that gap in the middle. She will tell you she hates how her skin wrinkles up like an orange peel in some areas. That her tits do not stand proud enough and her nipples are too large. That one boob is larger than the other and her feet are too wide and her nose slopes too far and her chin is too profound. Like many women, she believes herself to be a hundred times ridiculously flawed.
Although the jagged marks of her stretched skin are visible in the light and there are patches of cellulite on the backs of her thighs, and though there are occasional patches of red or white depending on the rash and the mood of the skin, she is not so easily judged by others. Her figure is hour-glass like, narrow and thin and flat at the waist, swollen goddess-like at the hips and breasts, and ample enough in the ass for a good gripping.
In the end, she slinks into a knee length red dress. She seems awkward in it, like she isn’t used to wearing the type of thing, and she isn’t. It is loose at the waist and cotton and pretty – more summery than sexy, but it has appeal in the way it curves over her tits up top. If she turns fast enough, a flash of milky white thigh is visible beneath the dark material. This combined with a pair of sandals because gods forbid she have a pair of heels.
“What are you doing, Jane?” To an empty room to her own reflection she asks this question. It’s when her lips are pursed and she’s carefully applying lipstick. There is mascara and eyeliner and a touch of blush. It’s all very gentle and natural and daytime like, but she realizes now she’s dolling herself up to go to a strip club in the middle of the day. Personal observations not enough to stop anyone from a grand adventure, she slams the door behind herself on the way out.
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