kitchen for a glass of water. Playing with myself was seriously dehydrating. I giggled at the thought and refilled my glass to take back to bed. I would likely need another top up.
The next scene featured a butt plug, which I wasn’t sure would make my bucket list, although reading about it was hot. No way was Justin Richleau gaining entrance to my ass. Maybe an older man, my version of the professor. I licked my lips at the thought of someone experienced prepping my puckered hole to be fucked. Someone with patience. Someone in control.
Mr . Wilson’s face flickered through my mind and I gasped out loud. Mrs. Wilson was built like a brick shithouse and obviously I’d thought of her when I played with myself, wishing that I had her sexual ease. Wanting to be her. But her husband?
A slow smile crept across my face. Yeah, maybe her husband was fuckable too. No, not maybe. Definitely. Fuck.a.ble. He was big, like Justin. I liked that heavy weight pressing down on me. I shivered. Mr. Wilson on top of me, his hand between us. I squeezed my eyes shut and humped my hips toward my hand, my palm slipping and sliding as I acted as both of us. Somehow this fantasy was more taboo than the many times I’d come thinking about lying next to Mrs. Wilson, touching her as her cool fingers explored my breasts and pussy.
That thought pushed me into spasm again, but I missed the peak of the orgasm, and instead of racing for it, I kept my eyes closed and drifted on the rolling wave. As the sensation ebbed, my body seeming to be covered in a million pulse points all of a sudden, I tucked the books under the pillow beside me and turned off the lamp. My pussy needed a break, and frankly, so did my brain. Mr. Wilson? What was I thinking?
Later that night
T wo orgasms knocked me out like a sleeping pill, but without the eight hour guarantee. I woke up with a start, my bladder about to explode. Enough time had passed that it was a pressing concern that I had fallen asleep without doing any of my normal bedtime routine. Besides needing to pee, my mouth tasted like a frog had crawled in and died, and I could stand to wash my face. I fumbled for my phone in the dark, my fingers glancing off it twice before they coordinated properly. It felt like the middle of the night, but the too bright screen promised me it was still an hour before midnight.
I crept out of bed and headed for the bathroom. As I flicked on the light, I heard Leo stir, and I stuck my head back into the hallway.
The condo was quiet. The Wilsons hadn’t returned yet.
No reason to wake up the kids with running water. I grabbed my toiletry bag and padded silently across the living room to the powder room down the opposite hall. The living room had thick plush carpeting, so I didn’t need to be too careful about my movements.
The first thing I did was pee, then I washed my face and brushed my teeth. Scrubbed clean, I no longer looked or smelled like I’d been fingering myself for more than an hour.
I paused in the doorway and glanced at the Wilson’s dark bedroom. Did Mrs. Wilson ever read the books in the closet? Did she have a dog-eared copy of something naughty under her pillow? I was tempted to dash in and look, but they would surely be home soon.
Back in my room, I bit my lip. I’ve always been curious, but my obsession with Mrs. Wilson and her sex life was in a category to itself. To be a fly on the wall in that room...that would be all the sex education a girl would ever need.
I flopped onto the bed and mindlessly flipped through my phone. There was a great picture of the two of us, taken by Mr. Wilson during a hot chocolate break at the ski hill restaurant two days earlier.I made it my background image. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright with laughter at something the kids were saying. I had tucked my head against her shoulder and was looking at Mr. Wilson. He’d reached across and grabbed my phone. He said it was a perfect moment worth
The next scene featured a butt plug, which I wasn’t sure would make my bucket list, although reading about it was hot. No way was Justin Richleau gaining entrance to my ass. Maybe an older man, my version of the professor. I licked my lips at the thought of someone experienced prepping my puckered hole to be fucked. Someone with patience. Someone in control.
Mr . Wilson’s face flickered through my mind and I gasped out loud. Mrs. Wilson was built like a brick shithouse and obviously I’d thought of her when I played with myself, wishing that I had her sexual ease. Wanting to be her. But her husband?
A slow smile crept across my face. Yeah, maybe her husband was fuckable too. No, not maybe. Definitely. Fuck.a.ble. He was big, like Justin. I liked that heavy weight pressing down on me. I shivered. Mr. Wilson on top of me, his hand between us. I squeezed my eyes shut and humped my hips toward my hand, my palm slipping and sliding as I acted as both of us. Somehow this fantasy was more taboo than the many times I’d come thinking about lying next to Mrs. Wilson, touching her as her cool fingers explored my breasts and pussy.
That thought pushed me into spasm again, but I missed the peak of the orgasm, and instead of racing for it, I kept my eyes closed and drifted on the rolling wave. As the sensation ebbed, my body seeming to be covered in a million pulse points all of a sudden, I tucked the books under the pillow beside me and turned off the lamp. My pussy needed a break, and frankly, so did my brain. Mr. Wilson? What was I thinking?
Later that night
T wo orgasms knocked me out like a sleeping pill, but without the eight hour guarantee. I woke up with a start, my bladder about to explode. Enough time had passed that it was a pressing concern that I had fallen asleep without doing any of my normal bedtime routine. Besides needing to pee, my mouth tasted like a frog had crawled in and died, and I could stand to wash my face. I fumbled for my phone in the dark, my fingers glancing off it twice before they coordinated properly. It felt like the middle of the night, but the too bright screen promised me it was still an hour before midnight.
I crept out of bed and headed for the bathroom. As I flicked on the light, I heard Leo stir, and I stuck my head back into the hallway.
The condo was quiet. The Wilsons hadn’t returned yet.
No reason to wake up the kids with running water. I grabbed my toiletry bag and padded silently across the living room to the powder room down the opposite hall. The living room had thick plush carpeting, so I didn’t need to be too careful about my movements.
The first thing I did was pee, then I washed my face and brushed my teeth. Scrubbed clean, I no longer looked or smelled like I’d been fingering myself for more than an hour.
I paused in the doorway and glanced at the Wilson’s dark bedroom. Did Mrs. Wilson ever read the books in the closet? Did she have a dog-eared copy of something naughty under her pillow? I was tempted to dash in and look, but they would surely be home soon.
Back in my room, I bit my lip. I’ve always been curious, but my obsession with Mrs. Wilson and her sex life was in a category to itself. To be a fly on the wall in that room...that would be all the sex education a girl would ever need.
I flopped onto the bed and mindlessly flipped through my phone. There was a great picture of the two of us, taken by Mr. Wilson during a hot chocolate break at the ski hill restaurant two days earlier.I made it my background image. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright with laughter at something the kids were saying. I had tucked my head against her shoulder and was looking at Mr. Wilson. He’d reached across and grabbed my phone. He said it was a perfect moment worth
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