Waking Up 36

The urge is building. My marriage...once strong and vibrant...has become a gilded cage. Release is inevitable. The little sex starved whore inside is waking up.

I want to have an affair. I want to lose myself in a torrid, illicit, filthy encounter with a handsome stranger. Wait. No. Make that a string of handsome strangers.

I will find these strangers in any number of places...

...Behind the counter at Starbucks. He will whip me into a frenzy, using his fingers like stir-sticks, to whip my clit into a thick, creamy treat while sucking on the stiff peaks that my excited nipples have become.

...At the airport, as I prepare for my flight to exotic, far-off destinations. He will coax me into the back room, where he will force me to strip as he ambulates in circles around me, surveying my gooseflesh-covered skin and my pink areolas, which are puckered from nerves and the coolness of the room. He will glove himself, per airport protocol, before plunging his fingers into my slit, wiggling them until my juices run down my trembling thighs.

...At the bookstore, as I sit reclined reading from a collection of erotic works by female writers. A mature gentleman approaches me from behind, wordlessly rubbing my shoulders until I melt into the soft fabric of the chair. He will run his fingers through my hair, down over my shoulders until his hand comes to rest in mine and lead me to the stock room, where he will undress me without speaking. He bends me over the wheeled cart full of new arrivals, and slips his ample erection into my moist, aching pussy.

My husband is a good man. He is handsome, intelligent, funny and loving. He is kind and passionate. He pays attention to me. He respects me. He compliments me. I am not missing anything. I have everything that any woman would want in a mate. Yet I crave something more, something primal, something deeper.

I don't want to fall in love again. I don't want to make new friends. I just want to be penetrated. Tenderly at times. Vigorously at times. Violently at times. I want to make love with a stranger. I want to fuck a stranger, maybe both in the same encounter.

My would-be lover lurks around every corner. I see his thick dark hair and ebony eyes in a passing Mercedes, talking on his cell phone while he drives to his high-powered job in a tall skyscraper somewhere. I see his smooth bald head, ebony skin and piercing green eyes, sagging blue jeans and tight-fitting tee on the corner in front of the athletic field, basketball tucked loosely under his muscular arm. I see his dirty blonde hair, pulled back into a pony-tail, small gold hoop earring piercing his left earlobe, tattoos littering his biceps, giving me come-on looks from the artist studio above the deli as I walk by each afternoon.

I see her brown locks, tousled carelessly in an impossibly sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed, look. Yes. Some of my fantasies include women. She barely notices me as I scan the shelves in the bookstore, pretending to look for some new masterpiece to devour. But I notice her. The curve of her breast, the smoothness of her ass. She is the masterpiece I'd really love to devour, or rather, that which I would have devour me.

I always imagine my lovers seducing me. I am the object of great desire in each of my fantasies. Perhaps this is my way of compensating for low self-esteem. It doesn't matter. If I analyse the reasons for my fantasies, they cease to be sexy. They cease to excite me. I want them to drive me wild. I want to be inspired and transported by them. I want to be able to imagine a wild, reckless encounter with the man who poured my driveway, the man who cleans my pool and with my boss. I want to touch myself as I imagine these encounters, reveling in the mad, mad wetness that is oozing from pussy.

I am splayed out on my bed now, imagining my boss. He is an older man; moderately muscular who possesses a larger than life personality. He is married to a glamorous though vacuous young woman and exudes great power in the work place. I imagine that he might like to spread his influence over me physically as well. He and I are working late in our respective offices one night. Our offices are in a lower level suite that is locked to the general public after hours. As I am lost in concentration at my desk, he peeks his head around the corner. I feel his eyes on me before he even speaks.

"How about dinner? My treat?" he asks in his beautiful baritone voice.

"Sounds great. What did you have in mind?" I reply, pushing my trendy, dark-rimmed glasses back through my hair until they come to rest atop my head.

"Ming Dynasty makes a great beef and broccoli, and they deliver," he says. I readily agree and he retreats to his office to place the call.

"And there's one more thing," he adds, returning to my office with a bottle of champagne. "I closed the deal this afternoon with the Merck people." His face radiates with a level of glee that I've not seen there before, but even in that moment, the power and confidence that emanate from him make me quiver.

He takes the bottle into his hands and pries out the stopper using both thumbs. The bottle erupts like an excited cock, splashing a bit of its sweet bubbly cum onto my blouse. My erect nipples are readily apparent in the sheer push-up bra that I am suddenly thankful I'd chosen today. His eyes fly open wide, half apologetically and half excitedly. He's nearly speechless, stammering to make an apology, as his eyes remain locked on my tits. He feels a tingle in his groin and is instantly aware that soon he'll be fully erect, with no way to hide it.

"It's okay. Really. No problem," I offer with a slightly awkward giggle, as I move my trembling fingers up to undo the soggy blouse, which buttons up the back. "I should...um...," I shrug, as I continue to undo the buttons.

"Oh, right.," he says. "I should get..." he motions over his shoulder toward his own office.

"Sir..." I call after him and he halts, hopefully, in his tracks. "Could you help me with these? I can't reach the middle buttons," though I haven't tried all that hard.

Wordlessly, he approaches me and I turn my back toward him, resting my fingertips on my desk. I can feel him trembling as he fumbles with the three buttons in the center of my back. As each button falls open, they reveal more of my flawless, honey-colored skin. I can feel his fingers running along the center of my spine now, from the nape of my neck to the valley at the small of my back. As he descends, he gives my bra a slight snap. I draw in a deep breath and hold it, anticipating his next move as I bite my lower lip.

He presses up behind me now, as I jut my ass out toward him. I can feel his throbbing prick dancing against it, as if knocking on my door, praying to be let in. I flex my ass cheeks to provide the right amount of resistance. He moans slightly and pushes harder. His hands reach down to the hem of my skirt, slowing raising it. The wait is agonizing. I am desperate to be fucked by him now, but he is teasing me, or maybe just exercising caution, maybe control, waiting to see how far I'll actually let him go. I can feel the scratch of the lamb's wool skirt as it slides along my stockinged middle thigh, my upper thigh, inching closer to my hips.

I lean onto my elbows, pushing my ass harder against him and standing on my tip toes so that his cock is now nestled snugly into my ass crack. It pulses and bounces, struggling against his trousers. I can feel my wet desire seeping into my cotton panties. I reach down with my right hand and feel it soaking through the fabric. It's as if I am not wearing any panties at all. I can smell my sex—engorged, anxious. I stroke my clit gently at first, and then with a growing urgency, moaning and panting as I enjoy my own touch and the feel of my swelling between my fingers.

His hands are on my hips now, stabilizing himself, riding a wave of illicit pleasure. As his wave subsides, he slaps my ass, making it sting and tingle. I love it. I cry out. He's in control of me now, dominating me sexually like he dominates me professionally, but I don't mind. I want to be dominated. I imagine the prying eyes of our coworkers watching us, feeding my exhibitionist desires. My blouse has fallen over my shoulders and I let it float to the floor. I reach up to unclasp my bra, letting my tits sway before me, my nipples dancing lightly across the cool laminate desktop. They respond by becoming painfully erect. He reaches around, taking a breast in each hand, and squeezes them, tugging at the nipples until I am overcome with a mixture of pleasure and pain. I squeal.

His left hand leaves my left breast exposed, as he leans back and fumbles with his belt and trousers. He pulls his cock from his boxers and presses it against my ass again, slipping it into the rear of my panties. I can feel it wedging itself along my crack. His precum dots the rear of my cotton panties. I can barely stand it. My sex is aching more than I can ever remember it aching before. He yanks at my panties, then my stockings, pulling them down to my knees. Gravity does the rest, and I step out of them. A pearly white strand of desire is stretched along my inner thigh. He reaches between my legs and feels it there, running his finger through it and into his mouth, licking my sweet, fragrant juices from his hand and savoring them, as if he were quenching an intolerable thirst.

I stand upright now, turning my head and shoulders just enough for him to find my lips. He presses his lips to mine and I can taste myself on his mouth. My tongue hungrily traces his lips just before I bite his lower lip and use it to pull him toward me. I bend forward onto the desk again, wiggling my ass slightly to focus his attention back on his cock and my sweet wetness. It works. His hand reaches back between his legs and he pushes the head of his swollen cock against my slit, separating my lips as he presses into me, violating me forcefully. He moves slowly, deliberately, making me rabid with anticipation.

"God, Sir, please!" I groan. "Fuck me. Please...fuck me." My words escape on a hoarse whisper, but they are not lost on him. He hears every word and obeys me. He slams into me violently, repeatedly, making me gasp, screech, and claw at the smooth desktop, searching for a way to gain leverage as he rips into me. The muscles in my thighs and calves are tight and burning, as I am still on my tip-toes. My ass and thighs begin to quiver under the weight of my impending orgasm. He is grunting now, fucking me like an animal, like he's been starving for sexual contact and is releasing all of his pent-up desire on me. I am in charge now. I have become the boss. And then he releases it into me...squirting copious amounts of viscous fluid into my tense pussy. He fills me to capacity and his thick semen begins to seep out around his now waning erection, dripping onto the carpet between my legs.

He pulls out of me, smacking my ass again in somewhat condescending fashion. Yes. He's still my boss. I remember now. But the fact that he fucked me in my office has introduced a new dynamic into our working relationship. I have a level of power over him that I didn't have before this night. It's a position I'll relish, and though I'm not likely to ever need to exert it, we'll both always know it's there.