Realignment

Note: I have never done this, nor will I ever. Neither should you.

'Chirp-chirp-CHIRP-CHIRP,' beeps the alarm on my phone. 'Chirp-chirp-CHIRP-CHIRP.'

Bleary eyed, I get out of bed, careful not to wake my wife.

I go to the bathroom, shave, then brush my teeth. Wash my face. Comb my hair. On the way out, I grab a small towel. For later.

Dressing quickly is the order of the day. A white polo shirt and jeans. Socks. I smile to myself as I pull the jeans up. Days like today are always commando days.

I tiptoe out of the room, careful not to wake Beth, but our cat pads out after me. I feed him breakfast and put out fresh water. Then, I see to myself. A breakfast of coffee and a banana.

While eating, I plan for the day's events. I'm not looking forward to work today. I can feel its weight on my soul, the wretchedness of the day radiating backward in time. It's going to be an awful day. But it seems my alternatives are worse. They always are.

Then it's lunch. A sandwich and some almonds get packed in a bag. An extra freezer bag comes out of the cupboard, too, but doesn't get packed with my lunch.

If Beth wakes up and asks why I am leaving so early, I remind myself to say that I am just trying to get a jump start. She knows my co-worker Judy has been flaking out lately, and I've had to pick up the slack. Fortunately, Beth doesn't wake while I'm home. I'm out the door well before six. So far, so good.

Since my boss Karen made the announcement at work a few weeks ago, things have just felt... 'off'. Nobody seems ready to handle our situation, even though many of us, including me, have been through this before. A morning like this can help get things where they need to be. A jump start, I've always called it.

My truck, a Dodge with tinted windows, is sitting in the driveway. I get in, and turn the key in the ignition. Slayer is on the truck's stereo. I always find it cathartic. Maybe it's because I listened to so much heavy metal when I was a teenager. I was an awkward kid, and that gave me an outlet where I could claim, 'this is mine.' Times like these, where I just don't feel right even in my own skin, I like to be reminded of that feeling. Even if Teenage Daniel would hate me, Adult Daniel.

But enough of that. I turn Slayer off, silencing Tom Araya's screams about being trapped in purgatory, and cue up a different kind of enjoyment of mine, a 1990's alternative band called Veruca Salt. I always thought that the women who sang in the band, Nina and Louise, sounded fucking hot.

Then I back out of the driveway, things stirring in the South at Nina Gordon's voice. None of this would be necessary if I knew what I was doing. 'Imposter Syndrome,' they call it. I have diagnosed myself from Google, so it has to be real. I find myself laughing audibly at the thought, and the one following on its heels: 'I'm such a fuck-up.'

And there's an honest thought. 'Would anyone who remotely had it together be doing what I'm about to?'

'Probably not,' I decide.

I pull away from the house, casually wondering what would happen if Beth and I stopped paying our mortgage. We'd lose the place eventually, but there would be enough time to put a plan together, right?

The route takes me through our neighborhood, turning down a street away from the main roads, which give a quicker path to my office. Left turn, right turn. Be sure to come to a full stop at the intersection... there is always a cop. Right. A little longer, and I get to where I need to be, and pull the truck over.

The growing bulge in my pants has been nagging at me all morning, and responds at my touch. It twitches once, twice at the attention, and gets larger still. Not too much longer, now.

I'm on a quiet street in a little 'Bohemian' neighborhood. It's ten after six, and I am getting near full mast and waiting. From my work bag, I remove the washcloth I grabbed in the bathroom this morning, and spread it across my lap.

Waiting.

I can remember how I found Sasha. That's what I call her, anyway. I don't have a clue as to her real name. I don't even care. She reminds me of a girl named Sasha I knew in college.

I had to make a detour on my way in to work to pick up a colleague who lived in this neighborhood. This was years ago. A little lost while looking for the right street, I was waiting at a red light when she came out of nowhere. I just saw this flash of tanned skin go past, and I gave a full double take.

And there she was - a tall, good looking girl out for a morning jog.

The image is still seared into my mind. She was wearing a white tank top and a pair of black yoga pants, with a jet black ponytail trailing behind. Her body just looked fabulous, flawless. My hands probably could almost wrap around her waist. She was built without being ripped, her breasts were big without being disproportionate, and she was tall without being a giraffe. Her ass just looked like it would be right at home in my lap - especially in those tight yoga pants!

What I could see of her skin looked absolutely immaculate - not a hint of stretch, sag, or scar. Her skin was a very light brown color, just dark enough to make me curious what her ethnicity was. She could be Southern European, or Middle-Eastern, or North African, or Hispanic. I wouldn't have cared, whatever her heritage, it was more a point of curiosity. It made her that much more special.

I especially remember being fascinated by the sweat I could see on her top and above her hips. How I would have loved to lick that off her body!

But more than anything, it was that face. Heart shaped, with a nose that suited her and full lips. I could never tell what color her eyes were, but it didn't matter. More than the aesthetics, it was the look of furious determination on her face, a beautifully focused scowl, intent on the horizon. She could accomplish anything with that expression. Climb a mountain. Cure cancer. Colonize the stars. Fix broken people.

I could envision her riding me, or me pounding her from behind, and seeing that look on her face as she approached ecstacy. How I'd see that look on her face while I was behind her was inconsequential.

She was physically perfect. And, to live in this neighborhood, at her apparent age, obviously fairly successful. I had no clue what she did for a living, but with that body, she could easily be a model. Or a trophy wife.

But, she could just as well be an attorney. An engineer. A doctor. A scientist. A businesswoman. And given the expression that she would point at the horizon, I had trouble envisioning her choosing a life or livelihood that depended on her looks.

I had been late picking up my coworker. He chastised me, but there was no good way to tell him I was late because I was beating off while following a 25 year old jogger. That night, Beth and I had wild, slightly rough sex, the dim bedroom lights around us.

That was two years ago. The coworker has moved away, like so many others, but I still come by to see Sasha when I need it.

My erection is basically full-size at the memory, and with a brief hesitation, I pull it free from my pants, and begin stroking the smooth shaft. Thank God for window tint.

I always think of what I'm doing as a jump start. Not so much in the sense of getting ahead. More of a jump start in the sense of trying to bring a dead automobile battery back to life. Today, a phrase that we use around the office, especially lately, comes to mind: realignment. The idea being that when something seems to be off-target - the company, a project, an employee - a grand public action is taken to get the target pointed in the right direction.

The company is not downsizing, we're just going through a realignment. Karen won't be cancelling bonuses for those on her team to make her own bonus better, her department is just going through a realignment. Judy isn't getting divorced after having an affair, she's going through a realignment. Daniel isn't a deviant fuck-up who is completely lost and floundering for the shore, he's just experiencing a realignment. As the thought drifts through my mind, I laugh at the fact that in my examples, I'm the only one who isn't fucking anybody.

And I don't know how or why, but cumming in a towel while watching a jogger will help me regain some focus. That's a realignment, and probably a more effective one than what Karen and her boss are pushing at us. I laugh at the thought, 'New company policy: more public masturbation to increase productivity!'

On its heels, 'I will have to suggest that to Karen during my next performance review.'

I watch in my rear view mirror, casually playing with myself against the white washcloth, imagining what I would do to Sasha. What she would do to me.

Speed being a necessity, I use a harder, firmer grip than I otherwise would, while memories of Sasha's body, of her running down the street, play out in my head.

I'm so hard, rubbing myself, and then there she is. Fuck. Her perfect form rounds a corner, onto the street, and I'm in awe. As always. She is the type of woman I would have been too intimidated to approach if I had met her when I was single.

And today - holy hell! She's wearing just a black sports bra and a pair of tight red running shorts. I groan and shudder, rubbing my cock harder. Precum leaks out of the tip. I direct my cock against the cloth, to avoid leaving a stain on my pants or shirt.

Her body is just flawless. No other word fits. Her calves are toned and firm, her thighs muscular but not overly so. I stroke my cock as I work my way up her body, watching her in my rear view mirror. I work my way over her pelvis, up to her flat stomach, her abs showing clear definition, and a small stud in her belly button.

Ohh, fuck, I would love to just cum on her! To feel her toned body writhing against me, and then fucking sticky with me. Ohhh...

I continue my way up, going faster. Her breasts, healthy and full, prevented from bouncing too much by her sports bra. I would love to just play with those, teasing them with my hands, my mouth, my tongue.

She stops at a traffic light a short distance behind me, and I watch her, as she stands there for a moment. Her arms are toned, too, although she doesn't seem to have much muscle, and she is resting them on her hips. Hips I can imagine myself grabbing as I pull her cunt into my face.

She's still too far away to see her face, but her full head of hair looks great, disheveled by her strenuous workout. It looks like she had just been laid really hard. Like I had been tugging her head around by the hair while she sucked my cock.

She begins to cross the street, and I shudder as she comes close enough for me to see her face, and that look on her face, staring into the distance, her cute face a mask of determination.

I wonder, not for the first time, what kind of position she likes? In my mind, I pull her on top of me, sitting on me, squatting over me. Her knees and runner's thighs are strong enough to bear her weight as she bounces up and down on me. Fuck, she's tight.

I pause with my strokes, spit in my hand, and begin going harder, watching in my mirrors as she nears the truck, seeing the muscles in her stomach move with every step.

And that face, just so... focused, framed by that black hair. I note again that her arms are not particularly muscular, but with that look on her face, she could probably still beat the shit out of me - or most guys - if she wanted to. I slap myself, hard, across the face, imagining her hitting me. Beth and I used to slap each other while fucking, back before that "L" word, "love," got brought into it.

I slap myself one more time, for good measure, watching her. The first time I did this, I was terrified of getting caught, but my windows are tinted enough that she could never see what I was doing inside. Not as long as I can keep the truck from rocking, anyway.

She's passing me now, and I can see the faint outline of her nipples against the black fabric of her sports bra. I have never had this good of a view of them. Ohhhh, to have my fingers around those! "Sasha..." I moan, quietly, the only other sound in the car the squelching noise of my fist, wet with saliva, pumping my cock. Fuck, it feels good with the skin of my cock getting pulled up around my head.

In my mind, I'm gently pulling her nipples with my lips as I fuck her, my dick dripping with her juices. Her back arches slightly as she runs, just a twitch, but I imagine it to be from my slurping on her tits.

She's close enough now that, for one brief moment, I could reach out the window and touch her. Grab her. That soft-looking tan skin with the hard muscle underneath moves past me, as I watch in awe. The word 'pilgrimage' comes to mind, and I chuckle, squeezing myself harder.

I imagine Sasha squealing as I pushed in hard against her, as I lose the view of her side. And now I'm staring at her back, her hips, her built legs and that perfect ass. I can't see a panty line, and wonder if she's wearing a thong or going naked underneath. Commando, I decide, for the purposes of my fantasy, that she had decided to go without panties just to tease guys like me. To tease me specifically. It's my fantasy, so why not?

Naughty Sasha... you're such a nasty girl.

I watch her ass, the muscles giving and pulling her legs in time, and picture myself behind her, tugging those tight shorts down and push into her wet, ready pussy, grinding the head of my penis straight into her, into her spongy g-spot.

I give the head of my penis a squeeze as my stroke reaches its apex. 'Can you feel that, Sasha?' I think at her. 'Can you feel my cock, pushing against the back of your clit? I know you've got that look on your face while I'm doing this to you, Sasha.' I picture myself giving those wonderful breasts a squeeze as I fuck her from behind.

She looks back over her shoulder, and I freeze, as she seems to look right at me, her brow furrowed. Idly, I wonder if she felt some sort of ghostly appendage of my imagination caressing her, fantasy and reality blurring for a brief moment. 'Telekinesis,' the word echoes up from the depths of my mind, remembered from a comic book I had read as an adolescent.

Rationally, I know nothing of the sort is happening. As she shakes the sensation was off, I consider going with it. Letting my fantasy become more ridiculous, that through some sort of superpowers that I am, in fact, physically and metaphysically violating her on this street.

'A fun thought, but not today,' I decide.

I moan, pause to spit in my hand again, as she continues jogging, and restart the motion. Not long, now.

I'm pushing into her so, so hard, and I envision her making a noisy yell, as her orgasm takes her. 'You're a screamer, huh, Sasha? You love what I do to your little hole.'

She's a block or so in front of me, now. I check my mirror for cars, and then pull onto the street. I'm going to cum watching her.

"You're going to suck me off, Sasha," I say out loud, as I pull back into the street, driving slowly. I spit in my hand once more, making it juicier, and wrap my index finger, dripping with saliva, over the head of my penis. I flick it quickly, while squeezing my other fingers and jerking rapidly. She's blowing me, and my finger is her tongue. Ohh, fuck, I'm glad I have big hands. I shudder and groan, getting close. The squelching noise and my arm moving are audible over the engine.

"You like licking yourself off of me, don't you, Sasha? You love it." My voice sounds deeper than usual. I'm still watching her, her wonderful back side.

I'm not going to last much longer. Warm tendrils of pleasure are wriggling through my testicles, moving from within me through them to the base of my cock as my sack draws close.

We come closer to a traffic light. She's a little bit ahead of me, but so far as I'm concerned, she's still on me. At the intersection, she stops, waiting for the signal to cross. Hands on her hips, panting, she turns toward me.

Ohhh, God. She's looking towards me. Not just in my direction, but at me. That expression I adore, that I was picturing while she was blowing me, is now pointed right towards me in real life.

Can she see me? Panic meets lust and near ecstasy all at once. My windshield is significantly lighter than my windows. She doesn't seem to be acknowledging anything odd going on, but I have a hunch that nothing gets by her.

Her sweat makes a dark triangle across the top of her breasts in that sports bra, and an elongated U across the top of her shorts.

And if I wasn't about to cum, the combination of that expression and that sweat - which in that moment, I would have done anything at all for the privilege of licking off her - sets me over the edge.

Those warm tendrils that were moving through me earlier open wide, exposing my body to an overload of pleasure. Every nerve, every synapse shorts out, and the eruption of hot pleasure from my prostate, cock, and balls thunders up like a volcano.

"Ah! S-Sasha! Ah... ahhhhhh!" I moan, blowing my load in the towel, and also into her mouth, and she's staring up at me in my mind's eye with that same expression she has while staring at me from the street corner.

My truck swerves slightly as I cum, pulling to a stop at the light. I know I am moving erratically in my seat, but I can't stop, I can't hold still while I climax. If Sasha notices, she doesn't give a sign of it. Her mind is on whatever it focuses on in the distance, and I'm just in the path.

I give a series of moans, first of pleasure, then of contentment. The cloth of the towel feels rough against my cock as I squeeze the latent semen out into it. Even so, I keep it going, letting the fantasy continue while staring at Sasha, imagining her greedily licking up my cum.

A final sigh, and then I chuckle once more, this time while looking at her. The exaggerated U-shape of the sweat on her shorts, her exposed belly button, her nipples poking through her bra... it brings to mind a smiley face. I bask in her body and my afterglow. I'd love to kiss the mouth of the smiley face.

For the briefest second, I swear she winks at me. But I'm certain that's as much in my mind as my ghost arm that was caressing her pussy. It has to be.

I take my eyes off her, and stuff the towel into the small bag I took from the house. I'll smuggle it inside tonight, and drop the cloth in the dirty laundry.

As I put my softening self back in my pants, the light turns green. Sasha is running again, and I smile, imagining the look on her face. Ohh, to see that directed at me, for me.

My breathing is still heavy, my face still hot and red as the car begins to move. I watch her until I pass her by, then I watch her in my mirror. Perfection. Finally, she falls out of view.

As I drive, I casually wonder, 'Did she see me? Did she know what she saw? Will she recognize my truck next time?

'Did she really wink at me?'

There is, of course, no point in worrying about any of this. I take a deep breath, and put it all out of mind.

When I get home from work tonight, I'll see if Beth wants to fuck. I love her dearly, even if I do things like I did this morning.

My voice is a higher register than my typical speaking while I sing along with the music. The sun is edging ever upward on the horizon, and the world is shaking off the dust of the night. My mind turns to work, and an idea strikes like lightning, a thought that needs to be chased through its twists and turns.

It's going to be a glorious day.