Colleen lay in bed, panting.
She had just woken up, admittedly not a normal cause for it.
Why am I panting?
She was alone and at the mercy of an appetite that no typical eggs and sausage would satisfy, a result of having taken no one to bed the night before.
Well, except for Dexter, of course.
And while the Dexter had served his (its?) purpose, it was not full body-and-soul satisfaction. It was not contentment on a cellular level.
Nothing new there,
she thought.
She'd never had such an orgasm, in fact.
For her, the Earth had never moved. Many a bed, yes. More than a few cars and vans. Several sofas and airplane bathrooms, of course. Hell, even an occasional late-night subway car and once, memorably, a helicopter.
But those movements were due more to the physical act of fucking than to the more ephemeral act of cumming her brains out.
All of which meant waking up that Monday morning with an even more intensified hunger than she normally woke up with.
She considered putting Dexter to use to start off the day, but like soccer players who swear off sex during the World Cup so as to channel that energy into winning the championship, so Colleen also resisted the urge to sate hers with Dexter.
Still, the panting...
Did I masturbate in my sleep?
She knew, of course, about sleepwalking and sex dreams, but sleep-
masturbating
? No way.
She groped for Dexter under the adjacent pillow. Still there. Cold, dry, unused for hours.
So, she hadn't sleep-masturbated.
Or whatever the hell it would be called.
Her left hand slid down her torso and caressed the folds of her labia.
Dry.
Although now there were stirrings. She easily aroused, even when it was her own fingers, and not a man's, that did the probing.
She pulled her hand away and flopped it above her head.
Then it hit her.
Aha! It was a
dream! She'd been fucked senseless by a man who'd ripped apart her discipline.
But she could remember no details.
As if a man like that exists.
Sighing heavily, she flipped off the covers and walked -- naked, tight, and curvy -- to the shower.
Dexter was her seven-inch vibrator. Firm yet soft, like the rubber handle of a ball-ping hammer. Thick and meaty as a Hungarian sausage, with a flared head resembling
leotia viscosa
, the famed chicken lip mushroom.
She'd never been eye to eye with a man's penis as thick. Or with a head that caused her clit to whir and trill like a radar detector.
In fact, she'd yet to meet a man who could make her cum like Dexter did.
However, she knew that intense orgasms were usually regulated less by the physical touch of a man than they were by the emotional trust in a man. That didn't necessarily mean love, though. It simply meant trust. By her in him. By him in himself. By them both in his knowing how to satisfy her by controlling himself until she lost it herself.
With Colleen, control was paramount.
She could control Dexter, but what she really wanted, in the deepest recesses of her carnal honesty, was to lose control to a man who knew how to take it from her.
Many a man she'd fucked were massively equipped. But such men fucked lazily. They didn't use their dick well. They were arrogant, she'd discovered, as if thinking their impressive equipment was sufficient to satisfy women when all it really did was satisfy their own ego.
She'd fucked many a lesser-tooled man, too. Such men fucked more diligently. Yet, they still didn't use their dicks well, either. They were insecure, she'd found, as if feeling inadequate at being less equipped, and it came through in their fucking.
No man she'd fucked yet had been man enough to take control and make her lose hers.
Thus, she had Dexter, so named for the famed serial murderer from that popular cable television series because, like the lead character in the show, her Dexter was emotionless but ruthlessly efficient and delectably satisfying.
The water cascaded down from the oversized showerhead. Warm, sensual. She rubbed her taut body with it and mixed it with her usual morning lustiness.
I'll be coming for you later, Dexter. Pun intended.
The thought heightened her arousal. Her fingers brushed over her nearly shaven vagina, lingering over her clitoris. Even the briefest of touches to this oh-so-sensitive ground zero of explosive feminine power had her entire body humming like an electric wire.
Though her sexual desire didn't have an on/off switch, her self-discipline did -- and only that would get her through the day.
In fact, knowing what she was coming home to -- Dexter, the vibrating prince of her pussy palace -- and whom she had set her mind to coming home
with
-- Antonio, the arrogant, smoldering hunk of macho heat who was serving as one of her two co-counsels on this case -- would make this day in court all the more exciting.
She squirted threads of silky body wash onto her belly, forearms, breasts, thighs, and shins, took the luxurious loofah from its perch on her bathroom wall, and began to wash. Her pink nipples shone in the soapy bubbles, becoming erect as she rubbed them.
Damn,
she thought,
wish I had time for a bath. I could really work myself up.
As she scrubbed her skin with the vigor of one scrubbing away bad memories, she imagined lying in the adjacent tub, spraying her yearning vagina with the removable, cylinder-shaped faucet head, spreading her legs to accept its gentle but insistent streams directly onto her sensitive pressure points.
Actually, she had time, but she knew from her current state that she'd want to prolong the bath and then glide dreamily into the bedroom and administer Dexter.
That
she didn't have time for.
Easy, girl, get your mind on the case.
Business before
bidness.
Her smile flustered the plump young barista into nearly dropping her red-eye coffee. He wasn't the first male to be awed by that smile. She'd won many a case with it. And many a heart.
Not to mention many an erection.
