Sparing

Her POV

I guess you could say I'm a cliche. Yet, as my mother always told me, they are cliches for a reason.

I am the frumpily dressed, bunned, bespectacled quiet woman who always seems to find her hero in 280 pages simply by unpinning her hair, putting on some makeup, and trying to be sexy (which never works as intended, but she gets the man anyway cause she's just so darn cute!). However, unlike the heroines of some torrid romance novels, I am still me with or without the glasses and unbound hair.

I was at the top of my graduating classes in both high school and college. I even graduated early with my bachelor's simply because I had no life and the library was my second home. Also, it took me until I was 27 to lose my virginity -- not through lack of interest on my part, but more lack of interest on anyone else's.

I am a small town girl with a big city heart, but through unfortunate circumstances, I was forced to leave Chicago and come back to the place I worked so hard to leave behind. It was, as most storied cliches go, the result of a death in the family. My father's, to be precise.

Now don't mistake my seeming lack of grief. I loved the old man, but he was such a tyrant in my life as well as any woman within his sphere, I was forced to move 2000 miles East to escape his influence. Yet, somehow, even in death he managed to thwart me and bend me to his will. Both in the literal and figurative sense (I am a humourous person occasionally--even I surprised myself with that witticism).

My mother called me one Saturday morning to inform me of my father's upcoming funeral. Oh, did I mention I wasn't home and she left it as a message on my voice mail? At any rate, I flew home as soon as I could clear it with my boss, and that is how my life took the unexpected turn.

Unbeknownst to me, though hardly surprising since years before I had quite forcefully let my father know in no uncertain terms I wanted nothing to do with him or his life, he had been forced to take on a partner in his law firm. I rarely came home for the holidays and so I'd never met Mr. Henry James Ryan, Jr.

To be honest, meeting the man of all your wet dreams at a wake is definitely not the place I would've picked, but as Fate would have it (the bitch) that's where I first met him. Well, kind of.

At 5'8" and more pounds then I'd like to admit to, I am not a petite woman (though I've read enough romance novels to wish I was). I had missed the funeral entirely due to bad weather that kept my plane circling for more than an hour before being released to land.

I know my mother would be angry in the death glare white-lipped kind of way, but wouldn't say a word until all of the guests left, so I figured I was safe for at least three or four hours (or more depending if the sobbing turned into a party as wont to do when a bunch of Irish get together in one place for more than 10 minutes).

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and threw money at the cabbie. I could tell by the line of cars that circled the block, I would be engulfed by a mass of relatives and family friends who would be anxious to share their grief over such a great man's death. Wanting to postpone the inevitable a little longer, I walked around towards the back of the house.

As I neared the back gate, I overheard a few whispers. I stopped as I craned my neck back and forth trying to figure out where they were coming from. Since it was towards dusk and the hedges from the next door neighbor's were overgrown, I couldn't make out who was talking. Yet, within seconds it didn't really matter as I finally realized the whispers weren't words, but moans.

I stood stock still as the sounds of a woman being pleasured washed over me. Her breathy "ohhs" and gutteral "fucks" were intoxicating as she was obviously getting what I yearned for since my last lover hastily departed from my life.

My suitcase dropped from my nerveless fingers as I stealthily inched forward in order to get a better look. Normally a very circumspect person, a part of me was horrified by the fact I was so curious and wanted to watch. The horny side of me ignored the halo'd presence and pulled on the tendrils of lust currently twining their cruel barbs into my moistening pussy.

The devil agreed with me as I heartily hoped my parents had never fixed the gap in the fence five feet from the gate. Luck was with me and I was able to peer through the hole to the action on the other side.

A young woman reclined on her elbows, head thrown back, her legs spread wide to accomadate a blond-haired man's busy lips and questing tongue. Though I couldn't really see what he did (due to her thigh being in the way) I could tell he was slurping and swirling to the best of his ability.

I imagined I could smell the scent of her sloppy sex and I yearned to be in her place. I wanted, nay needed, a man to lap at my gushing pussy or gently bite on that throbbing nob of flesh. Maybe nip at my thigh if I groaned too loudly (they were only 50 feet from the side of the porch after all) or slip a naughty finger into the puckered rosebud of my ass. Maybe two.

I could feel wetness soak my underwear (I say underwear because they were of good sturdy white cotton instead of the more delicate and pretty panties one wears for a beau) and desperately wanted to slip my hand under my woolen skirt to relieve myself.

So caught up in my own imagination and aching need, I almost didn't catch the slight sound behind me. Whirling around, I saw a tall stranger staring at me, his hands in his coat pockets. I immediately stepped away from the fence and made shooing gestures. A dark eyebrow raised in question and I made the universal gesture for fucking.

Inclining his head, he gallantly stepped to the side so I could proceed him. Despite the embarrassment of being caught peeping, unsated need still clung to my loins and I wished to return to my spot so I could partake in the pleasure of watching and reaching my own orgasm.

A tanned hand grasped my arm and tugged slightly. In my lust-filled haze, I had walked past my abandoned case and it was only the stranger's attention to detail that brought it back to my attention.

Smiling, I silently thanked him and leaned down to pick it up. His hand slid down my arm and long fingers tangled with my own. Gasping a bit at this unexpected intimacy, I looked at him as he raised my hand to his lips. I stared into his green eyes as his tongue traced a subtle pattern on my skin.

The four alarm fire already taking place in my pussy exploded into a raging inferno I knew could only be quenched by a thick hard cock plunging in and out of whatever orifice it could fit into. Something of my thoughts must've flashed across my normally impassive face because his pupils widened and his fingers clenched.

As to what might've happened next will remain uknown as my mother called my name. The angry undercurrent caressing the syllables quickened my pace as nothing else could. If I didn't appear RIGHT NOW, she would be using my full name and anyone with *that* kind of mother knows what the full name means. Trouble.