The senior girls would always come by the little downtown mall after school let out, fresh off from eighth period, smelling like notebooks and sunshine, browsing the aisles all straightbacked with nice postures and that plump youthful meat bouncing around in the ass of their jeanshorts. Late afternoons before my wife came home would find me hard at work on myself in the living room, sun slanting in the blinds, imagining those hard little forms grinding their plumpnesses down onto my prick, me shooting my hips upwards as I thought of the idea, intensely aroused by this new and forbidden fruit. I imagined most of them as virgins, particularly one gangly brunette I named Queenie with beautiful dark legs who would come into the record store sometimes still dressed in her soccer cleats and high socks, hints of babyfat which age had not yet etched off her cheeks (I knew her to be eighteen at least, she'd dropped her license and credit card once). I would try to save her, this my brown haired queen, till I knew I was close, and I would imagine those long legs all wrapped in a tangle around me as we fucked, that sweet face leaning back to netherland and calling out in her slight bracesmaid lisp, oh take me, oh take me. Thinking of her dimpled face twisted in anxious lust would electrify the tip of my prick and my hard-jerking hand motions would rush my spunk to its quick exit: the side of the coffee table, the rug, the low ceiling sometimes on the more intense days. Recently I had begun to come harder jerking off to my queen than I did climaxing at the hands (or loins) (or mouth) (or cleavage) of my wife.
It had been a humid, predawn Monday morning in the height of August summer when I first found out Ellie, my wife, was cheating on me. Both of us were up too early, which was not unusual, as both of us were undiagnosed insomniacs. I stumbled blearily out the back of our little one bedroom apartment to the porch to read, dressed in nothing but boxers. I found her already there, lounging in the humidity, still dressed in the tight, form fitting dress she'd passed out in the night before after seeing some colleagues for drinks.
My wife was once a beautiful woman -- she even sort of looks like what you might expect Queenie to look like in a few years, when she's older, save for that drawn-out exhaustion in her eyesockets -- yet now there was something almost haggard to her, something beaten. Age had not been kind to her face, though she was not yet thirty. Her thin form she kept, yet she had lost slightly too much weight to really be gorgeous. Seeing her there, then, in the predawn light, her long pale legs splayed out, her brown hair undone and carelessly cascading to the right side of her head, condensation forming on her forehead, her breasts creamy in the holdings of her bra (her dresses always showed too much cleavage, though it was and always had been her strongest attribute), I became overwhelmed by a cold, thoughtless lust. I tried to mask this, as I felt nothing at that moment for her emotionally, only an angry fascination with the triangular dip in her dress at her chest.
"Morning," she said, opening one pale eye fully, heaving her breasts slightly. Intentionally, I imagined.
"How was last night?" I asked.
"You see that Pirates game last night?" she said. "Unbelievable."
"Were you the only woman there again?" I ignored her in turn.
"It was alright," she said. "I'm just tired and can't sleep."
"You're always tired and can't sleep," I said.
I hobbled over to her, still groggy, reaching down and taking the paper from her lap. As if answering me, she narrowed her shoulders sexily and her boobs crushed together. I kept my eye for a second too long on that milky collision instead of turning to the paper in my hand.