that she had actually answered my question?
Or was it just something funny about me, something that was making me read too much into every word and gesture of Anna's, to the point of driving myself crazy?
I placed my hands on her waist.
My cock, which was hard as steel now, rubbed across her ass and her thighs as she turned. She had her eyes closed, and her lips turned into a teasing smile as she came around again. “Happy to see me,” she said.
But it wasn't just that. I wanted to get my hands inside of her. I secretly wanted to find her dripping, soaking wet, the kind of wet that came from being turned on well before 6:15 am, the kind of wet that happens only when a woman sits in her kitchen thinking and thinking about the man in the rental unit, until she has to move her fingers down and into her panties and make herself come with just a few, expert strokes...
Or maybe the kind of wet that was even wetter than that, the kind of sloppy, filled-up wet that comes from being fucked nearly senseless by the man in the basement, on her kitchen table, biting her own wrist to stop herself from screaming...
As I fantasized these scenarios, I moved my hand down between her legs, applying a light pressure to stop her from spinning around again. She seemed to have a mechanical momentum, and she pressed against my wrist, as if she wanted to go around again and could not stop herself. I pushed my fingers between her folds.
I found the silkier wetness, the moisture that slipped against my skin, only when I dipped inside of her.
But she was more wet than she should be.
Wasn't she?
Even as my fingers were moving into her body, and she stopped her turning to push up against me, craving more, my mind was racing through paranoid thoughts. Even as her hard nipples pressed against my skin and her eyes fluttered closed like a half-sleeping animal, and her lips parted to release a puff of ecstatic air near my neck, I was thinking of why should would already be so excited. It was so early in the morning, she had been up all night...for a man to have an erection in the morning was one thing, but whose wife was as slippery as this in the morning with nothing to stimulate her?
Had she gotten this way just thinking about him? Thinking about the excitement of another man, playing out her own secret fantasies? Had she lathered herself up with her jasmine soap and imagined John touching her body? Instead of her own hands had she been thinking about his hands, dark and strong against her lightly toasted skin, moving from her neck and over her chocolate nipples, down the middle of her stomach, over her light brown hair, and to where my hands were now?
Or was it something else? Had his hands even been there? Maybe they had only started something, and not finished. Maybe she had tasted his full lips, and felt his tongue in her mouth, and they had panted like teenagers against the wall, and then she had told him to stop. I imagined her, her light hair stuck to her cheek with the lusty sweat he had induced in her, pushing him away reluctantly, her sea-green eyes imploring him to keep going, even as she said, I can't...Brian...
And then had they embraced for one more kiss, and had her body arched against his with a deep ache inside of her? Had she felt his cock against her thighs, ready for her, and had she almost, almost, let him throw her on the floor? I could almost hear them panting together, wanting to fuck.
I curled my fingers inside of her, up toward the backside of her clit, and she moaned. I pulled my fingers out of her, and pushed her gently to the bench. She was ready, and she wanted to be taken: she placed her hands on the bench and turned herself up toward me. I looked down at her ass, hoping to find some trace of betrayal on it: a mark, a fading slap.
I guided my cock to her dripping wet pussy. The outside of her lips was washed away clean by the torrents of water gushing from the shower, but I was too blind with desire to think to
Or was it just something funny about me, something that was making me read too much into every word and gesture of Anna's, to the point of driving myself crazy?
I placed my hands on her waist.
My cock, which was hard as steel now, rubbed across her ass and her thighs as she turned. She had her eyes closed, and her lips turned into a teasing smile as she came around again. “Happy to see me,” she said.
But it wasn't just that. I wanted to get my hands inside of her. I secretly wanted to find her dripping, soaking wet, the kind of wet that came from being turned on well before 6:15 am, the kind of wet that happens only when a woman sits in her kitchen thinking and thinking about the man in the rental unit, until she has to move her fingers down and into her panties and make herself come with just a few, expert strokes...
Or maybe the kind of wet that was even wetter than that, the kind of sloppy, filled-up wet that comes from being fucked nearly senseless by the man in the basement, on her kitchen table, biting her own wrist to stop herself from screaming...
As I fantasized these scenarios, I moved my hand down between her legs, applying a light pressure to stop her from spinning around again. She seemed to have a mechanical momentum, and she pressed against my wrist, as if she wanted to go around again and could not stop herself. I pushed my fingers between her folds.
I found the silkier wetness, the moisture that slipped against my skin, only when I dipped inside of her.
But she was more wet than she should be.
Wasn't she?
Even as my fingers were moving into her body, and she stopped her turning to push up against me, craving more, my mind was racing through paranoid thoughts. Even as her hard nipples pressed against my skin and her eyes fluttered closed like a half-sleeping animal, and her lips parted to release a puff of ecstatic air near my neck, I was thinking of why should would already be so excited. It was so early in the morning, she had been up all night...for a man to have an erection in the morning was one thing, but whose wife was as slippery as this in the morning with nothing to stimulate her?
Had she gotten this way just thinking about him? Thinking about the excitement of another man, playing out her own secret fantasies? Had she lathered herself up with her jasmine soap and imagined John touching her body? Instead of her own hands had she been thinking about his hands, dark and strong against her lightly toasted skin, moving from her neck and over her chocolate nipples, down the middle of her stomach, over her light brown hair, and to where my hands were now?
Or was it something else? Had his hands even been there? Maybe they had only started something, and not finished. Maybe she had tasted his full lips, and felt his tongue in her mouth, and they had panted like teenagers against the wall, and then she had told him to stop. I imagined her, her light hair stuck to her cheek with the lusty sweat he had induced in her, pushing him away reluctantly, her sea-green eyes imploring him to keep going, even as she said, I can't...Brian...
And then had they embraced for one more kiss, and had her body arched against his with a deep ache inside of her? Had she felt his cock against her thighs, ready for her, and had she almost, almost, let him throw her on the floor? I could almost hear them panting together, wanting to fuck.
I curled my fingers inside of her, up toward the backside of her clit, and she moaned. I pulled my fingers out of her, and pushed her gently to the bench. She was ready, and she wanted to be taken: she placed her hands on the bench and turned herself up toward me. I looked down at her ass, hoping to find some trace of betrayal on it: a mark, a fading slap.
I guided my cock to her dripping wet pussy. The outside of her lips was washed away clean by the torrents of water gushing from the shower, but I was too blind with desire to think to
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