Author's note: This story is based on a role-play that a boyfriend and I enacted one night. It was extremely hot and I needed to share it.
*
"I'm sorry. Goodbye." Those were the last words I heard him say. Then there was the click of the phone as I hung up. I breathed a sigh half of relief and half of regret. Things had not been going well with Brian for a long time. There was the infrequent sex, arguments over stupid stuff, inability to communicate. It all added up to a breakup. Well, it partially added up to a breakup. The other part was that he had been cheating on me.
I walked across the living room to the front door and looked out of the curtain. Cars passed by. The day was otherwise normal. He was probably on the phone again, this time making a date with his new girlfriend. I opened the door and walked down the cement steps, my skirt flipping a bit in the breeze. I really shouldn't feel that bad, considering it had obviously been a poor match from the beginning. But all breakups are hard. You eventually realize that even if you never really knew the person, you still miss the person you thought you knew.
It was last week that he had packed up his stuff and moved out. Now when I made coffee in the mornings, I made it just the way I liked it. Though, I also ended up buying a bunch of frozen dinners because I didn't feel up to buying new knives and cooking implements. I guess that's what you get for living with someone who has all of the good stuff. He takes it with him when he leaves. At least I still had my house.
I sat down on the steps and played with the edge of my skirt. It was just long enough for the slightly chilly fall weather, covering my pale knees when I was sitting. I stuffed my hands deep into the cuffs of my oversized sweater to stave off the chill. I looked back up the house. I didn't feel like going back inside just yet. Evenings were the worst because I didn't know what to do with myself. I mean, as far as self-gratification went, I had plenty of toys, but no company. Even outside of sex, I needed someone to talk to. I needed a companion.
I got up and grabbed a scarf from just inside the door. Just a short walk to the liquor store and back. 15 minutes at the most. I should probably try to find a roommate. The mortgage wasn't going to pay itself. My parents had been smart to add me as part-owner of the house before they died but that didn't mean I could live "rent free". Brian had been a good bread-winner, I guess. Enough of one that with my simple job as a librarian assistant, I could keep a nice life-style (without being too extravagant) and still pay the bills.
The liquor store and I were good friends, so I knew exactly which aisles to go down and which to avoid. Friends looked out for you and made sure you just got the good stuff, the stuff that wouldn't make you feel like shit in the morning. I picked up a decent bottle of zinfandel (a good peppery-red, not that pink shit), and a six pack of my favorite pale ale. A little something for whatever my taste buds were in the mood for tonight. The 30-something at the counter flirted a bit with his eyes, though he kept his voice casual. Likewise, I eyed his slightly scruffy cheeks and chin, his dark brown hair curled slightly around his ears. He had a bit of curl, maybe, but this guy was not boyish at all. And he was tall and new. I wondered where the usual clerks were. I signed the receipt and smiled coyly at him as I hoisted the two brown paper bags into my arms. Why not? I was single. He was cute. And he worked close to my house. Not an insignificant factor. Would that make me sound too easy if I thought it was rather convenient? As I walked out of the store, I saw his reflection in the glass door, watching me. I flushed.
Later that night I danced to my favorite music, the stuff Brian never liked. The cork of the wine bottle rolled around on the tiled kitchen floor as I twirled through the lower half of the house. Drunk on wine, I never felt alone. I danced into the library, one hand holding onto the wine glass and the other slipping along the book spines. Leather. Paper. The smells were lovely. Brian and I used to fuck on the floor in this room. We would slide the rug over to the window and fuck in the streams of morning light. It was beautiful. Now, in the night, it was a dark corner, and it felt appropriate for me to be there. I swallowed the last of the zinfandel and left the glass on a bookshelf. Ignoring the rug, I knelt on the smooth wooden floor and slid my hands up to my nipples. Rubbed. Tickled. I felt my wine-warmed body respond. One hand slid down and touched my clit. Pinched. I gasped and shuddered. For a moment I wondered if I could make it up the stairs to get my toys. Long experience had proved that I couldn't cum without using either my hands or a vibrator.
Brian had always been very disappointed when I didn't cum. He'd tie me up and tease me, touching and torturing me until I couldn't stand it. And then when he'd start fucking me, I was in some serious bliss. But he was always upset when he came, but I didn't. I tried to convince him that I was fine with that! I loved foreplay and sex just as much as I loved orgasms! But no matter what I said, he eventually started to either stop short and pretend to have cum, or stopped entirely when he sensed I wasn't going to cum at all. In the three years that we lived together, he grew more and more frustrated with me. No wonder it didn't last.
