So this is a story about Laura. Laura has her own bookkeeping business, a hot older boyfriend named Jack, his beautiful, new pool to lounge around this summer and even a young pool boy, Mason, to look after all the maintenance. So what's the problem? Well, these days it seems Jack is being a bit neglectful. In this scene Laura succumbs to taking care of business on her own. But it seems she is not quite as alone as she thought. And she's left wondering if maybe pool maintenance is not the only maintenance Mason is good for.
I
dash into the family room and fish my special little helper out of my purse. Its
smooth egg shape and shiny contours calm me, knowing that blissful satisfaction
is near. I don’t lie on my back. I need to be fast and the fastest way is when
I can hump down on it in my hand while lying on my front. Quickly I slip it
inside my bikini bottoms and settle it between my labia, just over my clit. Even
the cool hardness of it feels intensely good and when I ease myself down to lie
flat on the sofa with my face buried in a pillow, I click the button on the
attached remote and the vibrations purr into action. My hungry body convulses
and I stifle a cry.
Oh
yes. Oh yes. This is what I need. I won’t be long now. I feel my body winding
tighter with glorious sensations and my release is imminent. Oh fuck, yes. I
shove two fingers in me too, because I just can’t help it, rock the vibrating
egg against me with my palm and come hard, my sex clenching my fingers, my hips
thrusting into my arm, into the sofa as I hump, not caring about anything now
but ringing every last bit of satisfaction out of this sweet release.
Sated
I stand up quickly. I have to clean up fast before Jack walks in the front
door. But when I do I immediately see Mason outside, turning away from the
sliding glass doors of the family room to the pool deck.
Oh
fuck. Oh holy fuck. Mason? What did he see?
‘Laur?’
I hear the door, Jack coming in the front. I stash my vibrator back into my
purse, wipe my juices on my thigh, adjust my bikini and smooth back my hair.
‘I’m
here,’ I call out, clearing my throat as I hear the shakiness rise in it.
We
both walk into the kitchen from opposite ends of the house.
‘You
okay?’ he says. ‘You look flushed.’ He looks out the window. ‘Oh, Mason’s
here.’ Then back at me, eyes narrowing. ‘Did something happen?’
‘What?’
I say. Did it? ‘No, I – I didn’t even
realize he was here.’ Obviously, or you
wouldn’t have been going for it on the sofa. ‘He must have just gotten
here.’ Just in time to watch you acting
like a bitch in heat.
My
brain will not shut up from its ranting in my head. Did he see? How long was he
there?
It’s
only when I’m lying in my own bed back in my own apartment that night that I
truly begin to calm down. The rest of the time at Jack’s before he left for
racket ball was an uncomfortable nightmare. I kept catching glimpses of Mason
out of the office window, as I was trying vainly to quickly finish up Jack’s
accounts, or out of the kitchen window, when I’d pad in there to grab a cold
drink. Each time I managed a glimpse of him he was staring intently at the
pool, apparently focused on his work.
Maybe he didn’t see.
But deep down I know he did.
Was he shocked? Disgusted?
Certainly a guy his age, with all of
today’s access to porn and live web cams, would have seen much more attractive
women masturbating in ways that were sexy, alluring, enticing. But what I did.
Desperately humping a toy on the sofa. God. So embarrassing! I think I never
want to go back to Jack’s again, as long as he’s going to be there.
Except.
Except there’s just one thing that
makes me sure in my head that I will go back, will go the very next day, in
fact, in the hopes that he might be there again. There’s one thing that makes
me do it again, masturbate again, this time leisurely, slowly, deliciously
slowly with all the time and privacy my own bed allows.
That
is the memory of his eyes, just as he was turning away from the sliding glass
doors. Our eyes met. For a split second we were staring at each other. I stroke
myself, run my fingers up and down and all around my clit over and over, tease
myself, shove my fingers in my sopping hole and back up to my clit again
thinking about what I saw in the depths of that stare, in that solitary moment.
Not
disgust. Not embarrassment. No.
Lust.
And
not lust in a knowing way, like in the way Jack used to look at me when the
mood would strike him and he’d bind me up in his bed and then stand back to
admire his handiwork.
Can
lust and innocence reside in the same place?
Oh
yes, they can. Powerfully so, I suddenly realize. I saw it in that fleeting
moment reflected in his eyes. All the carnal things he wanted to know but
didn’t yet.
Oh
god. I rub my clit hard, harder, finally thinking the thought that has lingered
around the edges of my consciousness since I saw his face through the glass
that afternoon.
I
want to teach him.
I
thrust two fingers inside myself and come hard on my hand, harder than I did
that afternoon as I gasp out under my sheets, all twisted around me from my
writhing.
Shit.
What the hell am I thinking?
That's it for now! Want more? Come out to the SA Writers Centre and actually hear more on July 26th at 7 p.m. Yep, I'm going to read another excerpt aloud. I am! And I'm not going to be embarrassed or nervous at all... Nope, not me... *looks around nervously*
Love,
KC
