The air was hushed, nearly silent as it blew across the surface of the land and the lake. It was warm with a chilly aftertaste, like many late summer mornings have. Frogs croaked, crickets chirped, and birds sang, mixing together to form a natural melody that was beautiful to the ears. She sat on the deck overlooking the water, sipping at a cup of peppermint hot chocolate with her laptop in front of her opened to an empty Word document.
It was the woman's first morning at her lake house. Quinn had arrived the night before, rushing to get out of the cold rain, and had hardly been able to marvel at the beauty of the area. Everything was green, even in the early morning when the light was barely coming from the sunrise. It was the type of place that she knew would inspire her to start writing her memoir, something that she had been planning to do even while she was in college, but had never had the mindset to actually complete.
So there she sat, staring at the tinted screen. Quinn lacked inspiration, even now, and she cursed in her mind. She had been able to write at any given second when she was young, but as she'd grown older, that ability had slowly faded away. Now she would have to rush to write down key phrases to remember ideas in the middle of the day, reveling in the pools of ideas that would come to her mind at the worst possible times—in the middle of the day, teaching her second grade class how to multiple simple numbers or reading through a book with the students in the college classes she taught at night. And then once she got home, Quinn hardly had the time or energy to sit down and pour her soul into anything, much less a story. So was the life of a working person.
As she sat there, she wondered where she should start. Her life had not been all that interesting, but publishers wanted to hear, or rather read, about it, so she'd agreed as long as they gave her a while to do it. She had the idea to do it through stream of consciousness writing, as to give the readers an even deeper look into her mind. So she began typing, as to create an authentic flow.
When you're writing a story, you have to give your characters a realistic background, so the reader can understand where the character is coming from in the way that they speak, or the way that they act, the things that they do. But this is much, much different. This is me, not a figment of my imagination. It's interesting to see what comes to mind when you're told to write something that explains why you are who you are.
I've thought of telling you the story of how I learned to ride a bike, secondhand since I hardly remember since I was so young; I thought of telling you about losing a tooth in a bowl of mac n' cheese once at the babysitter's house; I thought of telling you how I got inspiration to write my first story. I thought about telling you about my first real fist-fight in school, about how the first book that I really got into and wanted to real more of, about how I met my husband. But these things kind of seem so trivial to me now, like they weren't as important to me in the long run as they should have been, could have been.
But then again...
It feels just like yesterday when I was sitting in a second grade classroom. We had gotten an assignment that was to last us all year—writing a short story every day and drawing a picture to go along with it. Mine was about a horse, as always, and how it saved the day when a little cat was in trouble. I got so into this story, so emotionally involved in the well-being of this cat and the heroism of the horse. But I would never write in pencil, only in markers or colored pens. I wanted my stories to have flare, which, even still, I think makes up for their lack of depth.
Is this what inspired me to write, though? No, I'd say. Not really.
Quinn sat there after she typed it and re-read it three times, inspecting it for typos or errors in grammar. It definitely was not what she had expected it to be, but she went with the flow of what she was writing. She wanted this to sound natural, not forced like some of the other things she'd written about herself.
As she was just about to begin typing again, she heard a noise that sounded like splashing water. She looked up and saw that across the lake, which was not very far away, there was a man swimming along the water, seeming to begin laps. She could not make out his face until he swam closer, but she saw that he had dark hair, which was a bit overgrown and clung to his face. As he grew closer, her still watching him absentmindedly, she saw that he had a strong jaw, much like the woman's husband. The muscles on his back were so noticeable, even from a distance, that she had to squirm a bit as heat rushed through her. Before she knew it, he was coming close to where she was sitting on the deck. Quinn tried to look away, but she kept glancing back. Her face turned red as she realized this, scolding herself. You're married, Quinn. Control yourself, she thought. It was hard to, though, with how her marriage was going.
When she first married Gerald at the age of twenty-one, everything had been pure bliss. They had been in the honeymoon stage for at least the first five years—best friends, and lovers. But after he had gotten a promotion, and she took up teaching night school classes, they seemed to lose time for each other. Neither had enough energy to make love as often as they had before, or even to have long conversations about their days. It had been months since they'd had quality sex. So no, she really could not control herself—Quinn had always been as sexual as any given man, if not more so as she got closer to her prime.
She went to her web browser and typed in "literotica.com." She picked a story about a couple on vacation and slipped off her sweatshirt, leaving her only in a tank top and sweatpants—she hadn't bothered with any undergarments when she'd woken up. Her nipples stirred as they were immersed in the chilly air.
As she read the words, she slowly ran her hand lightly over her stomach, creating a tingling sensation that spread to all of the right places, making her buds even more erect. She used her other hand to take her deep red hair out of the hair tie it had been strung up in, letting it fall to tickle her shoulders. Slowly but surely, the hand made its way underneath the waistband of her pants, her fingers running through the thin strip of hair that lied beneath them and dipping into the wetness that had pooled. Quinn's head tilted back in pleasure as she made contact with the little nub that had come out of its hiding place and her eyes closed, biting her lip gently. It had been a while since she'd been intimate with herself, and she was basking in the sensations. She began to rub her clitoris very slowly, making circles around it. She began to get jolts of pleasure, so Quinn picked up the speed a bit, slipping the other hand inside of her top to cup her left breast. She squeezed a nipple as she rubbed her clit, letting a little whimper escape her full lips.
Releasing her nipple, she pulled down her shirt's thin straps and exposed her breasts to the breeze. They nearly instantly hardened. Then her free hand went inside her pants to join the other, rubbing her throbbing lips and teasing her opening. She heard a noise in the water again but did not bother to open her eyes to look. She continued with the rubbing and the teasing, and she felt her muscles begin to tense so she plummeted a finger deep inside of her soaked pussy, making a come-hither motion with it and rubbing the right spot inside of her. She moaned a little, adding a second finger, which barely fit inside the tight space. More whimpered escaped her mouth as she began pumping and rubbing in and out of her pussy, trying to get to the edge. Quinn told herself that she'd stop just when she got there and save it for later.
