She's coming over today, in 25 minutes. I took three pills, just in case, the max daily dose.
Maybe nothing will happen, maybe something will, who knows?
Am I ready to take that chance again? A chance to get caught, to fall in
love with the wrong person, to blow up a sub-par but stable marriage.
Probably not. but what if? Right? Isn't that always the question?
What if she comes over alone, maybe she told Ryan to stay home, that she
doesn't need any help painting. Maybe, Chris shows up late, and maybe, just
maybe, she's wearing her baggy linen shorts and my favorite tank top.
She's barely an A-cup, slim, tall, wildly perfect red hair, a tight little ass
built on miles of running, and a smile that makes me lose a breath.
She gets here, 9:30, on the dot. We have a lot of painting to do, but she
asks for a tour of the house first. My house isn't that big, there's only
a little to tour, but I'm glad that I cleaned the bathroom before she came
over.
In the master bedroom she kneels on the bed, resting against the headboard,
looking out the back window.
Is she sticking her ass out on purpose? She did, in fact, wear her paint-flecked
linen shorts. I stand next to her, next to the window; my heart is
pounding, is this it?
I put my hand on the bare skin between her tight tank-top and the waistband of
her shorts. She doesn’t move away.
“When we moved in over Christmas, 1998, the whole back yard was a jungle,” I said, my hand drawing
circles on her bare skin, “the house had been empty for almost a year.”
She closed her eyes as I touched her gently, “That’s the year after we moved
here,” she said sleepily, “I was 6.”
“Seriously?” I said, hoping the laughter in my voice was genuine, “are you
trying to make me feel old?”
I playfully swatted her on the back of her head, but then let my hand rest on
the back of her neck, playing with her hair for a few seconds.
“I’m sorry,” she said, contrite, “It’s just, that was a big year for our
family. I didn’t mean to make you feel old.”
“It’s OK, I am old. Older” I said,
trying to emphasize the -er.
My hand leaves her hair and slides down along her back, but I don’t stop this
time. Crossing over the waistband of her
shorts, I lose contact, until I find her soft skin again.
My fingertips find the back of her left thigh and I drift my fingers up and
down her pale skin. She sighs, just a bit, and puts her head down on her folded
arms. Her body shifts in unmistakable need.
"Please" she whispers.
"Please what?" I reply softly, trying to calm my voice over the
beating of my heart.
"Touch me."
My hand is shaking. Up and down the soft
skin. Down to the back of her knee, up
to the edge of her shorts. Any higher and it’s not flirting any more. Any
higher and everything changes, it’s not teasing, it’s seduction, it’s sex. It’s
real.
She sighs quietly as my fingertips move across her skin. Can she feel my heart pounding? Can she see how nervous I am?
My thumb crosses the line first, up under the fabric, She takes in a sharp
breath. I stop.
“It’s OK”, she whispers.
I can feel the soft linen lift as my thumb pushes higher, exposing the back of her
upper thigh, my fingers feeling the curve of her ass from on tops of the
fabric.
“MMMMmmmmm” she encourages me, but I can barely breath.
My hand curves around her bottom, my fingertips dangerously close to the center
line, I can feel her body in my hand, and she pushes back, every so slightly
against my palm, and I squeeze. She giggles.
My hand moves higher, pulling the fabric of her shorts deep between her
cheeks. Her skin is exposed, but I want
to see more. I slide my hand back down
her thighs, letting her shorts fall back into place.
She whimpers, but only for a moment, as I use both hands now to pull upward on
her shorts, pulling the fabric deep between her cheeks, exposing her pale white skin. She giggles again until I pull
harder, tightening the fabric against her crotch, a linen wedgie, lifting her hips,
bringing her knees off my wife’s favorite comforter before releasing and letting
her drop again.
Her laughter is intoxicating and encouraging. I pull upward again, bouncing her
once on my bed, she grabs the headboard for balance. But the next time is not for giggles, I pull the
fabric tight, lift, and suspend her in the air, her body pressing hard against the
fabric between her legs.
She is suspended, just off the bed, she could easily extend her legs and take
the wait in her feet, but she does not.
She hangs in my hand, the fabric pressing deep in to her middle, the
fabric compressing her lips, her clit, and she slowly spread her legs for me,
allowing the fabric to do its job.
I slowly let her down. She is out of
breath. I stroke her hair and the back
of her neck.
“Good Girl,” I whisper. “Did you like
that?”
She nods her head up in down in affirmation.
“Say it.”
“Yes,” she takes a breath, “I liked it.”
“Head down,” I say and she complies, resting her forehead on her arms again.
I reach over her back with my right hand and, using both hands at the same time,
pull her baggy linen shorts off her hips and to the bed, where they pool around
her knees.
She quivers as I trail my finger up the back of her right thigh, across her
hips, and back down again.
Her panties are buried between her soft pink lips. Her pale skin frames them perfectly and I
whisper that she is beautiful.
“Thank you, Sir.” She responds.
I correct her.
“I’m am not Sir,” my hand caresses the bare curves of her ass as I inch closer
and closer to the center. “Today I am Peter, Your friend.” Titles will come later, I tell myself. She is ready.
My fingertips reach between her thighs and trace her exposed labia from front
to back.
She gasps.
I have touched her. There is no going back.
I do it again, gently reaching between her thighs, I seek, not for her clit,
but for the wet fabric of her panties and the soft folds of flesh that covers the
silk. This time I use three fingers, stroking
her lips, tracing the damp silk, touching her with purpose and permission.
She gasps a bit and giggles, and begins to rise up, but I gently press her back
down until she rests her head again.
“I like this part,” I confess, “touching, teasing, exploring.” My right hand reaches between her exposed
this and I spread my fingers, instructing her to spread her legs for me.
“I love feeling you get wet. I love
feeling you quiver.” I say this very
matter of factly. I’m no longer
nervous, I am calm and confident and know that I am doing exactly what she
wants done.
“I’m going to pull your panties down.” I put my left hand between her shoulder
blade and hold her in position. My right
hand goes under the waistband and pulls away from her skin, avoiding any touch
as the panties pull out from between her swollen lips. I push the fabric to the
bed.
“Lift” I say, and she lifts her right knee.
I pull her panties and shorts down her leg.
I reach between and tap her left knee.
“Lift”
She repeats the motion and her panties and shorts lay in a pile at the end of
my bed.
I resist the urge to bring them to my face, my nose, my tongue.
“I’m going to touch you now.” She nods her head.
This time I don’t ask for a verbal, that will be a part of her later
training. Today is about touching,
cumming, and bonding, and it is all going according to plan.
My left-hand slides from between her should blades and to her chest. Her breasts are wonderfully
small with nipples that show through the perfect amount. I feel her nipples
through the fabric and receive a grunt of pleasure as a reward. My hand moves upward and wraps around her throat
for a moment, and then slides under the ribbed cotton weave of her tank top, and
I feel her breast in my hand for the first time.
This almost make me cum. I have dreamed
of this moment for months. Through hours
and hours of rehearsal, edits, re-writes, table reads, and painting. I watched
her come in every day at rehearsal. Tight yoga pants, barely there tank top,
perfect makeup and a smile.
She is a hugger and greeted everyone as if they were long lost friends. I
gladly accepted her greeting each time but, I longed for more, I longed to wrap
my arms around her slim waist and hold on until she could feel my cock grooming
between us.
I wanted to hold on to her until she chose to kneel before me, unzip my pants,
and take my hard shaft into her mouth. I thought of her constantly, at work, in
church, while I was deep inside my wife, when I had quiet moments in the
backyard.
It took a while, but we became friends, more than friends, and the tension
between us grew but I took my time. I waited.
I confirmed her feelings subtly, I volunteered to drop things off at her office,
her storage unit, so we could meet without the gazing eyes of the rest of the
cast and crew. Her hugs got longer, instead of me extending them, she would
hold on as long as I would let her.
Several weeks went by, the production came and went and was a great success.
She is a rising star, and their local theater scene has noticed. I would not
have much longer with her. She would be discovered, made famous, and move on.
My opportunity came when we had to work on a new set, I needed help with
painting, she invited some of her friends but they did not arrive. So, I gave
her a tour of the house. And now, here
we were, I stood next to her, next to my marital bed, and stroked the soft
perfect lips of her pussy. She didn't like it to be called that. I overheard her talking and she said she hated
that word, so I didn't say it out loud.
My hand played with her hard nipples. My right hand slipped between her legs
and they cupper her soft lips on purpose. No more teasing, no more playing coy.
My fingers stroked up and down and found her clit and circled it roughly and
she almost collapsed to the bed. My hand held up her chest and I brought her
back up to her knees. Finally, I penetrated, and she came. She came on my
fingers, clenching come holding on, unable to let go.
After a few minutes, she caught her breath, gained control of her voice, and
stopped mewling like a frightened kitten.
Her head dropped between her arms and I let her settle into the pillows
my wife bought to go with the new curtains.
I placed my hands on her hip, holding her down, pressing her into the soft, warm
bed, allowing her to breath, think, gather, recover, and collect.
I don’t know how long we stayed there, silent, perhaps a bit stunned as to what
had just happened. I waited, quietly, until I felt her shift under my hands.
She rolled on to her back, demurely keeping her knees together, until her face
came in to view.
She reached up and took my face in her hands.
“Thank you.” She said, and we shared our first kiss.
“Are you OK?” I asked as I move a lock of red hair off her forehead.
“I’m more thank OK,” she responded. I felt
her body shift again and I felt her legs open wide. “In fact, I’m ready for
more.”
