This is the second installment of the peculiar adventures of Charlie, who mainly struggles with her own demons in an unfulfilled marriage with good guy Bill, maintains an intimate yet confusing relationship with her best friend Megan, and is in love with a mysterious, online confidant, who gives her odd assignments. His name is moriander. Charlie is you.
I love words. This story is carefully crafted and might scratch, besides the obvious, also a quasi-intellectual itch. Please read between the lines. If you suspect a tongue in cheek every once in a while, you are not wrong. Any feedback is greatly appreciated.
The sun is up, but you lie in bed still. Alone. You sigh and stare at the ceiling. It has been two weeks now, but vivid images of that remarkable evening keep coming back.
The build-up was exquisite. You can still feel the excitement of Megan when you opened up to her about your secret affair after she caught you in the midst of quite a suggestive act. Her envy made you proud. You never saw her sexually aroused before, obviously, but right then the signs were unmistakable. And it was because of you.
But then that stupid impulse when you came home and found Bill in the arms of Morpheus.
You never meant him to look at you. The whole thrill of the experience, of the raunchy masturbation session right in front of him while he was fast asleep, lay precisely in the fact that he was
not
looking, that he was unaware of his precious, dutiful wife having her legs wide apart and keeping herself skillfully on the brink of an orgasm, edging like there was no tomorrow. Thinking about Megan, even.
One soft, accidental moan.
When he opened his eyes and met yours, your heart stopped while your head kept spinning. You quickly pulled out your fingers, almost with an audible 'pop', and that unexpected release happened to be just enough to tip you over the edge.
The silence of the night was shattered by the primitive howl that came from deep within you as your pussy contracted without any help. Shame and bliss fought for priority. His locked eyes seemed to extend the orgasm of which you suddenly were the unwilling victim. Never before did you come so inescapable. Never before did you feel so embarrassed. The echo of your screams slowly faded away.
Silence.
Bill said nothing, he just stared. You felt so vulnerable and inexplicably 'wrong' that you started to cry. The release of your inner tension and the eternal disappointment with your husband's lack of determination resulted in a sobbing fit.
"Please, hold me," you whimpered.
And so he did, after you entered the bed. He pulled you into his arms and spooned you, while your tears kept flowing. You felt his warm body against your back. The rock hard erection against your butt made you cry even harder. So typical of him: always handling you with care, while suppressing his own needs.
Fuck me already
, you thought, but you said nothing, because you did not want to ask for it.
It didn't take long before you felt his penis become flaccid and heard his familiar snore. With his arms still around you, you grabbed your phone and sent a message to the man who seemed so much closer to you than your husband ever was.
I just came, in the bedroom, while masturbating right in front of my husband.
Moments later he replied.
I'm so proud of you, Charlotte. Sleep well, sweetie.
His soothing words filled the void that your husband left, and with a faint smile you drifted off.
That was two weeks ago.
Ever since, you have replayed the scene countless times. Like now, here, in bed. Bill got up early and went for a bike ride, his usual routine on a Sunday morning. As soon as he left, you took off your nightgown and moved to his side of the bed. Funny how that makes you feel naughty.
The initial feelings of awkwardness and annoyance have vanished, and what remains is the overwhelming impression of that ruined orgasm, and the strong memory of Bill's hard cock. It has been months since he fucked you, but instead of despising him for that, like you used to do, you now fantasize about what could have been. What can be. Is there a glimmer of hope? Maybe you should shrug off your stubbornness and talk about these things with him. Well, some day.
It's so much easier to talk with your online friend. Between you and him there are no misunderstandings, as he truly
gets
you. Sure, he can be demanding at times, but often you are actually looking forward to his deranged sexual requests.
Last week he told you to bring yourself close to orgasm twice a day for seven days in a row, every morning and every evening, and hold on for thirty minutes without climaxing. Yesterday night's session was number fourteen. Meanwhile, your body has become as sensitive as a radio telescope, able to detect sexual pulses lightyears away. Your pussy is the center of the fucking universe.
Your hand moves between your legs. Though you won't break the rules if you finally give way to a much deserved release, you don't intend to come. You just want to feel the swollen manifestation of your desire.
The keyword is:
anticipation
. You truly believe that the afternoon just before a party is so much better than the party itself, and the minute before it starts is best. Of course, this only holds if there really
is
a party, you cannot cheat with just a random afternoon.
Well, there is nothing random about the wetness you feel. All set and ready to roll.
Interesting how your attitude has changed lately. Or is it simply a better understanding of what really makes you tick? You long for a man of action, but ideally the action is not executed, or more precisely, not right away. A paradox? No wonder it is so hard to explain. Poor Bill.
Of course, no woman is the same, which makes this topic even more complicated for a man like Bill. Or for anyone, in fact. Take for instance Megan's text message from yesterday that took you completely by surprise. She asked you very politely, humbly even, if she was finally allowed to touch herself. Finally? Allowed? You didn't take the promise that she made two weeks ago, to first ask for your permission to masturbate, very seriously. Harmless banter, or so you thought. But now she appears to be on a strict sexual diet. A kink of hers?
Her request is much less about anticipation than it is about power. The difference may seem subtle, but to you it is crystal clear. Her kink is not yours, but both are equally genuine. Nevertheless, she is your best friend, not your lover. She can't be seriously asking
you
this, right?
You gasp as you indulge in the intoxicating effect of one slowly penetrating finger. You can just do that. Anytime. The understanding that Megan has been deprived of this sensation for two weeks
and counting
makes the feeling even more delightful. Make no mistake, you don't specifically enjoy the fact that
she cannot
, but rather that
you can
finger yourself. Irrespective of orgasm, you treasure that freedom.
Never did you consider yourself to be particularly dominant. But Megan makes it very easy, if that really is what she expects from you. You casually declined her request to touch herself, but offered to meet her today instead. Let's find out if your best friend is kidding you. She must be. In just a few hours it will all be sorted out, and you'll both probably laugh about it.
Time enough to turn over once again and enjoy that feeling of silk on skin. It's almost like being lightly touched by an enormous hand, or by a thousand small ones. The sheets rustle as you move around with your eyes closed.
You grab Bill's pillow and put it between your legs. As if there is another hand, more firm, embracing your pussy. You tighten your legs around the pillow, then relax and tighten again. The thought that you may be staining Bill's pillow with your wetness arouses you, which obviously gives rise to even more stains.
Lying on your stomach now, you grind against the mattress with the pillow still between your legs but also partly under you, causing pressure where it counts. You move your buttocks slowly upwards, as if giving your sensitive clitoris the chance to inhale, then you smother it again. Up, breathe, and down, choke. Your own breathing follows the rhythm of your hips as you speed up the pace. Every time you go up, your pussy wants to go down and kill that burning source of pleasure.
And then it grows.
You feel the excitement swelling from between your legs to thighs and stomach. The playful kitten with its glowing eyes is suddenly turning into a much more dangerous beast that starts to take over your body. From thighs to feet, from stomach to breasts. Also inside your head there are countless little sparks of electricity. You roll your eyes and gasp, as you feel a new fire erupting from deep inside your pussy, much stronger than the initial flames.
The birth of an orgasm.
It is there, inside. You can feel it kicking and struggling to get out. It wants to be alive and scream at the top of its lungs. Selfish to the core, it doesn't care about you and will leave you limp and exhausted. You stop moving and lie still.
Your heart beats like a bass drum, reverberating through your whole body. You try to slow down your breathing, thereby incarcerating your orgasm again. The
fucker
is still inside, and you want to keep it there. Safely behind bars.
Minutes pass, and you slowly come back to earth. You start to giggle and soon laugh out loud. You won. Now your body feels unreal, as if it's not yours. You have almost grown accustomed to this bizarre sensation that occurs after dodging an orgasm. Twice a day for the past seven days. With your mind utterly relaxed, every single cell of your skin is like an armed detonator, your nipples won't soften and your pussy is literally dripping. A strange yet fascinating dichotomy.
Finally, you step out of bed and hit the shower. The warm water is soothing, and you let it comfort you for a while as you stand there passively, eyes closed. Then you soap yourself with care. You exercise extra caution with respect to the oversensitive parts of your body.
Half an hour later you grin to yourself in the mirror, while you button your dress. Here's Charlie again. The good wife, the best friend. The easy-going woman whom you can laugh with. The reliable companion who cares. Considerate and well mannered.
There are no complicated issues if you simply don't talk about them.
You go downstairs, drink some milk and eat a banana by way of breakfast, and leave to see Megan. You agreed to meet at her place. It's a 15 minute drive. As always you look forward to getting together and rejoicing in a wonderful friendship.
When she opens the door you show a big smile, and so does Megan. You don't say a word. You just stand there for a while and look at her, while your smile grows even bigger. Hers too. At the exact same moment the both of you burst out laughing and you give each other a hug. It's a ritual every time you meet.
"So nice to see you again."
You step inside, and it feels like coming home. You've always loved Megan's cozy apartment. There are plants everywhere and a huge bookcase that contains more titles than one could possibly read in a lifetime. It covers a complete wall till the ceiling, and one even needs a small ladder to reach the books on the top shelves.
Besides the bookcase, the other highlights of the room are two enormous lounge chairs facing each other. They almost resemble two thrones with their high backs, but are infinitely more comfortable. You kick off your flats, and snuggle up on one of them as Megan comes back from the kitchen with a big teapot and a tray with cookies.
"Green lotus, your favorite," she says.
Her attentiveness gives you a warm feeling. "You're the best, Megan."
She winks. "I know."
Megan nestles in the other throne opposite of you. Her sparkling eyes peek over her cup as she takes a sip from her tea. She has a mild squint, almost unnoticeable but rather attractive. She once confessed to you that she felt very insecure about it. You told her that a small imperfection like her mysterious squint is in fact the epitome of beauty, and that you would kill to have eyes like hers. She said that she didn't believe you, but thanked you nevertheless.
In no time an hour has passed with pleasant conversation. It's that familiar mixture of news, gossip, jokes and all those other shared interests and memories that make your friendship one of a kind. Megan pauses after an enthusiastic review of the last book that she read and fills up the teacups.
"Megan?"
