Three minutes to go. Sweat poured down her body, the rhythmic motion left her in an almost hypnotic state. It had been so long. She always liked the slow start, the gradual build-up, the brief sprints and the languid slow downs as she caught her breath. But she was tired now, the minutes ticked away and she had to hold on just to keep at it, to keep moving, her muscles sore, tightening up.
Finally, the program ended and she hit the button. The treadmill slowed and then stopped, and she got off, feeling beat, but energized. It had been so long since she had such a grueling workout, but in the 40 minutes she had managed to sneak away from the hubby and kids, she made the most of it.
She wiped the sweat off her face with the towel, headed upstairs for a long shower. The kids' rooms were dark—one was sleeping, the other saying last goodnights one last time for the fifth or sixth time. Quickly, she slipped into the bedroom, locked the door behind her to prevent unwanted intruders, stripped out of her sweatpants and shirt, and grabbed a quick peek at her body in the mirror. It had been shaping up quite nicely. Her hubby loved it anyway—he could barely keep his hands off her. She pulled off the sports bra, setting free her stimulated breasts, her nipples tingling slightly from the friction of the workout, rising to attention in the cool air of the bathroom.
It was sometime in the middle of soaping up—she couldn't remember when, perhaps her as she rubbed her ass or her calves or her feet—when she thought "Damn!" Her vibe, out of reach now, would have come in so handy. The warm water coursed down her body, washing away the soap and sweat. She felt stimulated but hungry. Nudging the faucet handle slightly, she cooled the water to try to take the edge off this sudden endorphin-fueled lust, but the shock of the chill caught her by surprise, producing even more of a shocking, stimulating effect, and she quickly finished the shower. She knew she had a brief window of opportunity to take care of matters, and that there was something in that old shoe box under the bed that she could use about now.
Hurriedly, she dried, not very thoroughly really, and slipped into her robe. In her delicates drawer, she fished around the various unmentionables and found something that made her feel sexy—a breezy silk thong, which cradled her pussy like a soft hand. She pulled it on, feeling the thin strap ride up between her legs and through her crack, a gentle restraining reminder that felt both connecting and liberating. The crotch piece dampened, and she couldn't tell for sure whether it was her own wetness or her hasty drying job that made it so. She walked to the bed, dropped to a knee and extracted the objects of her desire, one in each hand.
It was always a hard choice, picking the right tool for the job. There were those days when she felt businesslike, almost Japanese, preferring the slim sleek smoothness of a prim little leopard torpedo, with its laser beam focus on the task at hand. The brisk workout, the whole petite and feminine feel of the thong—she could go for that smooth snappy kind of orgasm now, quickly and sharply. But then there were nights like tonight, when she also craved something bigger, gnarlier really, something that could throw a little stretch and variety into the mix. She tossed them both on the bed, wishing she didn't have to choose.
Dropping her robe, she laid down on her stomach on the bed. Screw it, she thought, her hand finding the angled thickness of the chili pepper, dialing it on to a strong vibe. Tonight I feel a little more slutty than prissy.
She worked the vibe down to her thong, raising it up to permit entrance to the warming space between her legs, resting it outside against the silk, the vibe so strong that it may as well have been inside for all the power it was delivering to her swollen clit. She pulled up, the feeling so tense, then went back down for more as a blissful numbing worked its way from her feet up her legs. After a minute of the undulating motion of her hips, there was no mistaking the wetness that penetrated the thong as anything other than her own. She ground her teeth unconsciously, gritting as each slow pelvic revolution brought her spiraling closer to fulfillment. Deftly, she slipped the angled tip inside the thong, pushing the material to the side, grazing her swollen lips along the way, letting them envelop the shaft. Her hips arched and she traded the vibe head for tail so that it could penetrate her more easily, coming in from behind, sliding in an inch to where the tip arched against her g-spot, like a finger motioning "come here" against the cushy, swollen pad inside her. Neglecting her clit entirely, she worked this spot until that deeper craving and sensation came, a warmth, as if all the blood in her body had concentrated in her pelvis and torso, producing a sense of being hugged from the inside.
It was almost too much—she had teased herself too much and now she wanted more. She slid the chili in until she felt herself stretch, until she felt full, but it still wasn't enough. Her free hand found her nipple, still rock hard and still sensitive from the chafing workout. She pinched it—tight—and thrust down on the vibe suddenly and simultaneously, picturing in her mind a thick cock filling her and possessing her. She moaned audibly—something she almost never did, this vocalization, and kept bearing down on the vibe last it was the last cock in the world. She wanted to pull it out, suck it, take it down her throat while the other one filled her pussy, both ends occupied at once, just to be used and completely and utterly fucked, the two sides of her, giving and taking, simultaneously satisfied, but as it was, this deep penetration and pinching pain was feeling so good she couldn't stop.
Suddenly, she felt the edge of the bed depress slightly, and she paused for a moment. I locked the door, she thought, what the--then she remembered and relaxed. It wasn't one of the kids, because they couldn't work those locks. He must have unlocked the door when I was moaning and I didn't hear it. Fuck it, she thought. If he wants a show, he can have one.
She raised her ass in the air to tease him, to offer it to him, and she felt his hand meet it. She wanted him to slap it, to possess her and make her his own, but he would never do that. He just stroked it, spread her ass cheeks and watched as she took the vibe deeper and deeper, over and over again. He kissed her ass and she felt his stubble rough on the smooth skin of her hips, his hair brushing her butt and then her thighs as he kissed her calves.
She pulled the vibe out slightly, working the g-spot again and bearing back down so that some of the vibration echoed out to her clit. She felt his hands on her ass, massaging, caressing her back. She heard something. The other vibe. He had turned it on and was running it down her back, between her shoulder blades, down her spine, to the small of her back, a distracting massage when all her attention was elsewhere. She tossed her hair back over her ear and looked back at him kneeling behind her.
