The early morning sun casts shadows across the second floor master bedroom, a single ray of light enveloping her angelic face in a golden glow. Through half-open, bloodshot eyes, Roger glimpses the prone figure of twenty-three-year-old Tara Summers, his girlfriend of the last four months. Whether it is the booze in his blood or the boy shorts on her booty, the only thing on Roger's mind is getting her up and getting himself off.
Hot. Dirty. Kinky. Playtime.
Between the margaritas at happy hour and the martinis at midnight, Roger reluctantly sets aside his own needs and opts to let her sleep. After all, if he's this hungover at almost a full foot taller and close to 90 lbs heavier, he fears she will feel even worse if roused from her drunken slumber.
The contrast between Tara's pasty-white complexion and shadow-black hair is as severe as her five-foot-two-inch frame on his California king-size mattress. Though petite, her moonlight flexibility and Olympic-level endurance proved beyond doubt that big things actually do come in small packages.
Gently, Roger lifts and re-positions the comforter, watching as Tara sleepily turns to face the other direction. Roger is ravenous, his sexual appetite craving her soft, syrup-sweet lips, her perky, mouth-sized breasts, and her thick, good-enough-to-eat backside. He is fixated on her form-fitting panties, jealous of the fabric bunched up between her cheeks and the way the elastic on her upper thigh is stretched to the max.
Instead of rolling off his side of the bed, he methodically slides his body away from the headboard, careful not to wake his sleeping beauty. With his face now flush with fever, he brings his nose within a centimeter of the center of her butt, his dry, thirsty mouth lined perfectly with her soon-to-be wet, panty-clad pussy lips.
His eyes widen, his penis hardens, and his nostrils flare. Dizzy with desire, he inhales deeply, deliberately, like a patient participating in a therapist's breathing exercise. For Roger, the scent he is greeted with sends his heartbeat into overdrive, his cock now throbbing in rhythm with his racing pulse. The influx of pheromones play roughshod on his libido, transforming him into nothing more than a primal beast, an animal acting on the evolutionary instinct to procreate and survive.
The smell of his lover's most intimate area feels like she's letting him in on a secret, a private part of her essence of which no one in the world is privy; a carnal, musky mix of sweat, sweetness, seduction, and sex.
With eyes wide open, Tara lays completely still, perfectly motionless, pretending to be dead asleep, a padlock on her lips. Only when his tongue makes contact with the back of her upper thigh does Tara tug the comforter back over her body, a reactionary movement she hopes to sell as involuntary. But some things can't be hidden, like the sudden increase in her body's temperature and the acute wetness now pooling in her panties. With great effort, Tara resists the urge to engage him, to thrust backwards, to saddle and smother his face, too shy and embarrassed, afraid he will be let down, turned off, or worst of all, grossed out.
Sitting. Dancing. Sweating. Peeing. I must smell foul!
Tara projects an innocent demeanor; she is prim, proper, and polite, taking pride in her appearance with, at least according to her mother, an unhealthy obsession with other people's opinion. With a hypersensitivity to bad odors, Tara holds stock in all-things hygiene, from perfume and body wash, to air fresheners and candles. She rarely goes a day without a morning shower, an early evening bath, and at least one of the two before bed; after each, adorning freshly-washed undergarments and reapplying expensive, designer smell-goods.
While spontaneity was the cornerstone of all her fantasies, in reality her shy and submissive nature kept Tara from exploring and acting on those clandestine, sexual urges. But as she learned from her previous partner Mallory, in her first and only relationship with a woman, Tara is all but powerless to pressure and coercion. Random thoughts and memories of Mallory race through her mind as they always do when sexually aroused.
Roger exhales, then continues slithering down the length of the mattress before hopping onto the floor. He stands and stares at the woman of his wet dreams, his mind awash in dirty thoughts and filthy fantasies. He hurries out the bedroom, taking two stairs at a time before stopping in front of the fridge in the kitchen. He drops a few cubes in the glass and fills the rest with water, then heads back upstairs. Roger re-enters the bedroom at the exact time the bathroom door is closing.
She's awake!
He holds the already-perspiring glass of ice water in his hand, the room silent sans the running faucet of the bathroom sink. Forever the prankster, Roger tiptoes to the door, placing his ear against the thin particle board, a juvenile plan forming in his forty-four-year-old mind. He listens intently as the toilet seat meets the porcelain, followed by the subtle sound of her relieving herself. Considering how much they both drank, Roger's not surprised that her stream increases to a feverish pitch. Ordinarily, the idea of a woman peeing would do nothing to excite him, but there's just something about Tara that does. Perhaps it's her private nature, her near perfect manners, or the polished poise with which she presents herself.
Just as she's finished, Roger hears a barely audible, yet unmistakable sound: a rush of air punctuated by a soft, muffled squeak. Confirmation of what he just heard comes right on queue when Tara whispers to herself, "pew."
Oh my God! Did I just hear her fa--
His thoughts are interrupted by the whoosh of the flushing toilet. Before he could move, the door heaved inward, spilling both Roger and the contents of the glass onto the bathroom floor.
"Were you just ... spying on me?" Tara asks timidly.
Betrayed by her own bodily function, the putrid fumes filling the room fuel Tara's terror, as she hurriedly leans down and attempts to lift Roger, frantically fighting the fire of her own disgrace and humiliation. With her backside in the air, she strains, and the unthinkable happens: Tara farts for a second time in as many minutes. It is not loud by any measure. In fact, it could have easily been passed off as something other than passed gas.
Sensing her anxiety, Roger springs to his feet and bounces back into the bedroom. Tara sizes him up, trying to gauge whether or not he heard it. And while he most certainly did, Roger knows better than to embarrass her in this vulnerable state.
"I'm sorry, my flower. I was just bringing you some water."
*****
About half an hour later, Roger and Tara are in the kitchen. Tara is craning her neck, staring at the top of Roger's head as she slowly bends at the waist and places her palms flat on the surface of the breakfast table.
Tapping it tenderly with his tongue, Roger places his thumbs on each side of the hole and slowly pulls it apart.
"Loosen up Tara, this looks amazing."
Tara bites her bottom lip, clearly lacking confidence but anxious to do anything to avoid discussing what happened upstairs. Struggling to find the right thing to say, she half-whispers,
"Is it hot enough for you?"
"Oh my God. Now you're just teasing me! By the way, I almost ate it earlier while you were still asleep."
Covering her mouth, Tara teasingly pretends to take offense with Roger, then says in a taunting tone,
"Well, this is what you asked for, isn't it? So stop yapping and start eating."
Roger's eyes widen and so does his mouth, his lips coming together as he blows cool air along the surface. It is his turn to do the teasing. His outstretched tongue begins lovingly licking the edges before flickering it against the tight, tiny opening.
The eagerness in Tara's emerald eyes encourages Roger to stop being ginger and just go for it. He forces his tongue through the inviting hole, relishing in how resistant it is to being penetrated.
Tara moans, "Oh God, I knew it, it tastes gross, doesn't it?"
Roger removes his tongue, his pupils seeming to grow in pure ecstasy. He lists forward and sinks his teeth in, savagely ripping off a huge piece, his face contorting into a look of sinister satisfaction. Tara is caught off-guard and drops to one knee, her face now close enough to smell Roger's breath.
