Can't Get Enough (13 page)

I know the planes of my body well but feel oddly detached from my own touch, remembering how filled up my hands were when I rubbed it into her. I bring a thumb to my mouth and run my tongue over it. I had never tasted my own semen before that night, never been compelled to, but my mind is making the same lazy circles my hands were a moment ago, reminding me of when three of my fingers had been inside of her, how she brought them to her mouth and the sound she made as she sucked.

I think about how I lifted her skirt and rubbed handfuls of wet sand over her upper thighs as she shuddered too. About how by the time I poured my warm beer over the swollen satin folds of her sex and the revitalized length of my dick to rinse away the sand, by the time I was finally inside of her, we were gritty and dirty and so hot for each other that nothing else mattered. I jack off again and fall back into restless dreams of summer sun and warm welcoming skin.

Wednesday

My sleep is no better, but now my work is beginning to suffer. Also, I am surprised there is any skin left on my palm—or my penis for that matter. I am an hour and a half behind schedule and almost deliver three separate packages to the wrong addresses. Thank god I catch the mistakes before driving off.

The strange thing is I'm not just thinking about the fucking anymore. Don't get me wrong, there is still plenty of that carnality roiling around up top, but I find myself also pondering the fate of our meeting. I haven't been able to track her down, even after more phone calls than I am willing to admit. I am not even sure if I am describing her well. If I could tell any of my
friends or friends of neighbors or neighbors of friends about the perfect roundness and dusky pink of her nipples or the rippling sheath of her vagina, I could distinguish her from all the other pretty girls with blue eyes and a long brown ponytail.

Foolishly I want to make them understand, to tell them how open she was to me, to every whim or manipulation I coaxed her body into, every thought in my head met with instant compliance, with greedy acceptance, with a matching hunger all her own. I am achingly aware of the difference between want and need now.

Thursday

Sleep is impossible. I am experiencing a masturbation fatigue that I don't remember being a problem in my teens, which was the last time I had spent so much time with my tool in my hand. I can't jerk off after, well, jerking off and off and off. I just stare and stare and stare instead. I see the ceiling, but I also see the vast open nothingness of the rest of my life without ever finding her.

I have the day off so there is a lot of staring happening. My mom calls and that conversation will forever be confined to the far reaches of the 90 percent of gray matter I don't use because all I could think about was slickness and sweat and sand and the scent of the sun. It reminds me, though, how she told me that night on the beach that she was raised by a single mom too, and now instead of hapless despondency, I am beginning to feel something like panic.

I am wondering what she is doing at this moment. I am wondering what she looked like when she graduated high school, and what she does for a living. Because now I am not just thinking about her body, about wrapping my prick in her long brown hair or sliding it between her breasts or inside,
god
,
inside of her—any way inside, all the ways I can put my body into hers. Now I am needing to know who she is too. I am listening to
Swiss Army Romance
nonstop.

Friday

I am obsessed; I am questioning my sanity. No sleep, or if there are small snatches of it, nothing restful. I can't eat now either. Screw steak, just give me her. I would happily sacrifice food forever for just one more taste, hell, just one more glimpse of her. What have I become?

I am step-step-stepping my way door to door and leaving packages of this and packages of that but my mind is trapped in that same spiral of images and memories and imaginings of her.

That's when the proverbial “it” happens, when I find my unicorn on the planet Saturn, the gift that fate never actually bestows upon anyone in real life. I climb the stairs to apartment 16F of Fairfield Place and she opens the door in a loose white T-shirt and some type of plaid pajama pants.

“You,” she says, looking breathless and a little strung out, and also like the most brilliant thing I have ever set eyes on. I hold the lightweight brown cardboard box out to her, and she steps back and opens the door wider.

She is against the wall of her tiny entry before the door has swung shut, and the first thing I do is press my nose hard into the pulse of her throat. I want to actually eat her, ingest her into myself. I am incoherent but try to speak anyway, try to tell her that I need her and have been crazy since we met, but she just shakes her head and kisses me with answering ardor. The clack of our teeth, the simultaneous urgent sounds we make when she presses her tits frantically into me, our shared rapid breathing, they are a symphony of relief. So close, so close. She is right here and I almost can't believe it. I tug her shirt up and over her head,
pulling the rubber band from her hair and groaning deep when I can take those hard pink nipples in my hands again. Somehow, I remember my idling truck in the parking lot and try to break free. It's like trying to pry electromagnets apart.

“I'll be right back, right fucking back, I promise,” I tell her, but she shakes her head no.

“Quickly,” she counters, unbuttoning my shorts and sliding them down with my boxers as I yank at her pants. The next second I have her pinned against the wall again with my cock inside her and this artless coupling is better than my memories or anything my imagination had conjured. I feel like weeping with the sheer satisfaction of having found her. She is grabbing me in rough handfuls as I pump, pump, pump. Her vagina is tight but slick, and she is bucking against me as best she can without losing her footing. In a deft motion that I probably could never again duplicate, I move her to the patchy vinyl tile floor, on her hands and knees, and shove back into her. I want her to really, really feel me. I want to reach as deep as possible. I would worry about our knees except I know that I won't last very long.

I seize the mass of her hair right at the scalp, pulling her head back so that I can lick her sweat-dampened neck, then reach around with my other hand to pinch her clit, distended from its little hood. I am overcome with the smell of sun. It seems to burst around us, radiating as she cries out her release and I flood her pussy in jerky snaps of my hips. Before letting go, I growl into her ear, “I'm not even close to done with you.”

“Good,” she manages to murmur as she collapses to the floor in a panting puddle of perfection.

MELANIE'S CHOICE

Medea Mor

T
hirty lashes. That's what she'd get if Steve caught her in the act. Thirty lashes with an implement of his choice, or fifty if she didn't tell him and he found out anyway.

Not that Melanie cared. She'd been horny all day. In the morning, she had woken up with her hand between her thighs, stroking herself without even being aware of it. At work, she'd found herself pressing a highlighter between her legs while drawing up her report, squeezing her thigh muscles around it as if it were a cock ready to invade. Neither action had given her any relief. Nor had it been supposed to, because she didn't have Steve's permission to come, not without him present.

They had rules, he and she. Many rules, the most important one being that Melanie wasn't allowed to orgasm unless Steve had given her permission to do so. Her orgasms belonged to him, he'd informed her when she had first moved in with him, and seeing as he tended to be generous with them, she seldom felt the need to disobey him.

Today was an exception, though. Fourteen days without Steve had sorely tested her self-control. Sitting alone on their sofa every night, Melanie had realized just how vital his presence was to her well-being, how lost and restless she felt without him there to add structure to her life and push her buttons.

As his two weeks' absence had drawn to a close, she'd grown impatient for his return, and now that it was imminent, the anticipation was positively killing her. And so it was that, when she'd gotten home that night and changed into the skimpy schoolgirl uniform he'd told her to wear on the evening of his return (
sans
underwear, naturally), she'd found herself gravitating to the black box under the TV, which was innocently labeled
DVD
s but really contained the majority of their not-inconsiderable collection of naughty toys.

She'd resisted the urge at first. She'd told herself that she could hold out a few more hours, until he stepped through the door and had his wicked way with her. She'd told herself that he wouldn't have kept her on edge for so long unless he was planning something special upon his return, something that would make the long wait worthwhile. But it was no use. She needed the release, and she needed it
now
.

As she rummaged through the toy box, which contained a sizable collection of punishment implements as well the requisite plugs, cuffs and vibrators, Melanie found herself wondering what thirty lashes of each implement would feel like on her near-naked backside in the event that Steve should walk in on her while she was pleasuring herself. She knew from experience that the oiled leather flogger would leave quite a nasty sting. So would the small black flogger with the knots on the ends of the falls. Thirty swats with that and she'd probably regret her impatience. Yet part of her
hoped
he'd catch her in the act, just to experience the intensity of a flogging or spanking again. She
craved the pain, the ritual of submitting to him for punishment. She needed him to take control of her, to bring her to heel when her frustration led her to challenge him.

Eventually she found the toy she'd been looking for: the blue silicone vibrator that felt so comfortable against her delicate skin. Without packing away the other toys, she lay down on the sofa, her knees pulled up and wide apart. She lifted the minuscule tartan skirt Steve had told her to wear that evening and put the vibrator between her thighs. As the toy began to buzz against her swollen clit, she pictured Steve sitting next to her, stroking the insides of her thighs while she surrendered to the vibrations that were slowly turning the waxed triangle between her legs numb. In her mind's eye, he was running his fingernails from her knees down to the crease of her thighs, up and down, slowly and sensually, driving her mad with the insistence of his touch. She'd touched herself like that over the last few nights, hoping against hope that her attempts at his signature touch would make her feel less alone, but to no avail. The difference between his touch and hers was so vast as to be almost grotesque.

She reached down with her free hand, spread some of the wetness from her aching pussy to her clit and pressed the vibe over her little nub. As she rubbed the buzzing toy up and down, she imagined it was Steve's tongue flicking at her, licking her, driving her to the brink of insanity. The thought sent a pulse of pleasure coursing through her body that resonated deep in her pussy.

Within minutes she felt like her entire body was vibrating. Shuddering in delicious anticipation of what was about to come, she clenched her thighs around the vibrator as if it were a buoy that would lead her to the rolling waves while protecting her from them at the same time.

She was riding a small wave when the latch in the front door clicked. As the door fell shut
,
thudding in its frame
,
she realized with a start that Steve had arrived home
,
but that didn't stop her from pressing the vibrator against her clit as he put down his suitcase and leisurely wandered into the living room
,
shaking his head at the lewd image that greeted him. Nor did it stop her from pressing it even harder against herself as he sat down next to her
,
his jacket still on
,
his gray eyes full of mirth and terrible promises. Her heavy-lidded eyes met his as the tension she'd tried all week to ignore continued to build inside her
,
ineluctable and inexorable.

“Well,” he said softly, arching a wicked eyebrow at her. “Looks like you weren't exaggerating the other day when you said you missed me, kitten.” He reached out and found the moisture pooling between her thighs, eliciting a gasp from her. “I suppose I should consider myself flattered that my absence should drive you to this, but I'm a little disappointed that you couldn't hold out just a tiny bit longer.” His fingertips began to explore her slick folds. “Would it have killed you to wait just five more minutes?”

Need pulsed through her body like a living vein, so hard that she could barely think straight. So intense was her need for release that she gave him the first answer that popped into her head. “Yes, Sir,” she panted, her breath ragged and fast.

Steve seemed amused at her honesty. “I'll give you a choice, kitten,” he said, sliding his fingers along her slippery labia. “If you stop now, and I mean
right now
, I'll forget that you went against my wishes, on account of your two-week ordeal”—he grinned—“and the fact that you make such a splendid sight humping that toy in that skirt.” He traced the opening of her sex, teasing her beyond endurance. “If, on the other hand, you choose to go on, you'll pay the price for your disobedience. I'll
grant you your orgasm. I'll even help you make it a good one. But there will be hell to pay afterward.”