Well, Gentle Reader, as the old song by some girl singer goes - There, I Did it Again.
To those of you who have been wondering what the hell ever happened to David and his Mom, I apologize. I'm a victim of a couple of things. First, I'm an honest writer. By that, I mean that these stories tend to unfold, and I'm often surprised by what my characters wind up doing. I don't work from an outline. That means that sometimes I have to take a break to see what the rascals are up to.
Second, I have a mild bit of OCD (that's Obsessive Compulsive Disorder for those of you who never went through the curriculum to become a teacher and had to take all of the psychology courses associated with that particular career path). I fret over finding the right word and then fret more about making sure grammar and punctuation are correct. From time to time, I'll mention Mrs. O'Neill, my third grammar teacher, and it's her voice in my head that tells me to be sure before I turn it in. Then, I have to argue with Grammarly, the grammar-checking program I use, over style elements.
Mostly, though, I think it's a good idea to let these stories cook for a while before taking the next step. For this one, and it is one of my favorite stories, I woke about a week ago with the next step clear in my mind. But then there's the OCD thing, and it's taken this long to get it on paper.
Anyway, here we go again. Let's switch into our fly persona and go hang around on the wall. I think David is about to turn a mental corner, and who knows what lurks around it. I think the streetlight is out, and the street is dark. But don't worry, I'll be right there beside you.
Interlude
I woke, and my first thought was,
"Oh my God. I think he is really going to make me a whore."
My second thought was,
"Oh, fuck, I hope he does."
My third thought was to lift my arm carefully and breathe a sigh of relief when I saw my hand. There was no trembling.
My relief was so great that I almost cried. And that need, deep in my belly, exploded. I felt myself, suddenly wet. I felt myself, suddenly desperate for him. My breath caught, and I couldn't seem to make my lungs fill.
Interlude Finis
It was a good dream, and as I woke, it was a good awakening.
She was straddling me, and there was a desperation in her eyes as I managed to focus on them that worried me.
But then she settled onto me, accepting me into her body in that perfect fit that still surprised me.
She sighed, a long, soft exhalation. The desperation left her eyes. She smiled.
"Let me show you how good I'll be," she said.
She was moving slowly in that sinuous way some women can pull off. Her back moved like she had 66 vertebrae rather than the normal 33. Her vaginal muscles held me tight. Her fingers entwined in mine, holding my hands pinned by my ears, her weight pinning me unless I wanted to hurt her, and I certainly didn't want to do that.
She held my eyes, and I felt the sudden tension and hot wetness as she came for the first time.
"Men like to see a woman cum, don't they?" she asked, her voice oddly soft, her smile pure joy.
"Yes," I said.
Her breath caught as she sped her rhythm, her lips parting.
She bent forward and kissed me before brushing her lips across my cheek and breathing into my ear, "Watch my face, Honey, see how much I love you, how much I appreciate what you do for me."
Thin threads of saliva connected her upper and lower lips when she smiled at me. I could see love and lust in her eyes.
What I couldn't see was sanity.
"That's right, Baby," she said, her breath thick and bubbly, "I feel it, God, I feel it."
Her eyes held mine as her hips moved in that snakelike way, and she was saying over and over, almost a chant or maybe a prayer litany, "I feel it, God, I feel it, God, I feel it."
Her eyes went wide, sclera showing clearly all around her irises. Her mouth opened wide and she breathed out an almost silent scream, more a whistle, her vaginal muscles tightened around me, and her fingers clamped down on mine as she soaked us both with her pleasure.
She didn't blink as she held my eyes through her orgasm.
"You like my cumface?" she asked as the tension slowly left her body.
"You're beautiful," I said.
"Thank you," she said, "and right now, I can believe you."
"Show me that face again," I said, softly, my hands cupping her ass, squeezing gently, not wanting to hurt her now, knowing that she was feeling what I was doing.
She grinned, and the rhythm of her hips sped up.
I watched her, not moving, making her do all of the work.
Her eyes never left mine as she worked her hips, her core muscles working hard. I laid my hands on her ass, not pushing or pulling or spreading her cheeks or anything but feeling the big
gluteus
muscles working.
I felt her work and then start to strain. I heard her breathing change to shallow little gasps.
I saw and felt the sheen of sweat that broke out as she engaged in the physically hard work of sex.
"Come on," I encouraged her.
She giggled softly and said, "I'm trying."
"Come on," I said softly, urging her on.
"I'm trying," she said again, but I could feel the way her movements were starting to fail as her body was exhausted.
"Come on," I said again.
"I can't," she said, her voice so full of sadness I almost chuckled, "Help me."
"Keep trying," I whispered.
"Davey, I can't," she said, and I could hear the truth in the way her movements were starting to turn into weak little jumps and shudders, "Help me, please."
I caught her nipples between the big knuckles of my index and middle fingers and twisted. It was a hard, brutal twist, and I was crushing her nipples with all the strength of my hands.
She came, her mouth wide open in an almost silent scream, more a faint whistle than a true scream, her eyes so wide they seemed to bug out, drops of sweat dripping hot from the tip of her nose and her chin. I felt her soak my cock and balls and spray almost to my knees, her love honey scalding hot where my nerve endings were quivering already.
When I felt her start to relax, I twisted even more, pulling her nipples away from her body.
And making her cum again, almost as hard, almost as wet, almost as complete.
This time, I let her relax, although I still kept her nipples and areolas locked in my knuckle grip.
When she was relaxed, I released her. She gasped and settled, murmuring, "I love you."
"And I love you," I said, but I don't think she heard me. She was dozing.
It was nice, for the next month, to make love without the need for one of her "treatments."
Here's what I mean.
One night, a couple of weeks into this respite from treatments, I was lying beside her. We were in bed after a quiet evening, a frozen pizza, and
Sex in the City
reruns kind of evening. I was tickling her back, paying particular attention to her ass which seemed to be a very efficient finger-magnet. I was just tickling, admiring her shape. I thought, at first, she was laughing softly, but then realized she was crying.
I swung my legs and got to my knees, carefully, afraid to look to see which body part might be starting to flail around. I didn't see anything, so I bent forward, brushed a stray lock of hair away from her ear, and whispered, "What's wrong?" My lips were close enough that they brushed her ear as I asked my question.
She did one of those sudden bursts of athleticism she could do and rolled onto her back, almost seeming to levitate when she did that. She was looking up, her face verging on ugly with its swollen sinuses, swollen red eyes, tear streaked cheeks, runny nose, and her upper and lower lips connected by a web of thick mucus-laden saliva when she smiled a ghoulish smile.
"You can't know," she said, her eyes big, her voice very thick, "what it means to me to be able to feel what you were doing."
"Well then," I said, smiling and giving her a slick, snotty kiss, "let's do the experiment and see just how sensitive you are."
I brushed her eyelids with my fingertips, my fingerprints barely touching as she closed her eyes. I covered her face with those little touches and started working my way down her body. As I was tracing the hollows of her collarbones, she shivered, giggled, stretched, arched her back, and whispered, "I'll give you exactly 42 minutes to stop that."
I laughed and reached up to the old-fashioned digital alarm clock on the headboard and carefully set it for 42 minutes and went back to her body.
There's nothing, in my opinion anyway, that is sexier or, at least, that shows you're getting to her, than watching goose bumps (chill bumps? goosies?) rise as you tickle or kiss or blow or otherwise provide the most delicate possible sensation.
As I moved to her belly, where that little patch of stretch-marked softness was a finger magnet, she giggled and squirmed a little, her breath catching.
I traced that line where thigh joins trunk, the
inguinal crease
or, if you're up on your urban dictionary, the
love line
, and she sighed softly, parting her legs in invitation. I accepted the invitation and brushed, very, very gently, her labia, my fingertips barely moving the coarse hair there, until I smelled her arousal while her hips began pushing up, seeking more pressure.
I denied the pressure she wanted. Instead, I moved around until my knees were between her calves. I lightly tickled the little line formed by her labia and thighs, watching as she parted her legs more and her hips lifted. She was leaking now, the thick white nectar of her natural lubricants making a thin line down the crack of her ass.
As I bent forward, my palms very lightly pressing right at the tops of her thighs, opening her a little, her breath caught, and she hissed a long, sibilant "Yesssssssssssss."
I smiled as I denied her again. I didn't kiss or lick as she anticipated. I blew, very gently, enjoying the way her body shuddered and her hips pushed up, seeking more.
I blew and inhaled the sweet perfume of her desire, blew again, and sat back, letting the pheromones suffuse my blood as if I had taken a hit of very good pot.
Then I pulled back farther, my fingertips brushing slowly down the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs, tracing the line of the big
adductor
tendons, watching as her legs twitched a little before I began kissing and touching and blowing my way down her legs.
I made love to her feet for a minute or two, keeping an eye on the clock, trying to make sure my designated 42 minutes didn't run out before I had covered all of her. I caressed and massaged her feet. I tickled them. I played with each toe separately, giving little twists and pinches before sucking them.
