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Page 26.
 "You mean like a cod, or halibut, or a fish?"
"I think cod was Middle English for scrotum."
"How weird. That's almost like those Stone Age people in New Guinea who wear gourds on their dicks."
"Same thing."
"What do women wear?"
"Little black miniskirts. Open blouses. Lots of things to turn other people on." We watched the rest of the program. It segued into another rerun of the same show. K yawned a bit, rubbing her eyes with her left hand while her right hand stayed in diddle mode under her robe. She honestly did it without thinking. I could almost read the sensuous thoughts that crossed her mind by watching the polygraph of that finger. As a seismometer needle traces the strength of earth tremors, so her knuckles moved slowly back and forth under the robe.
I distinctly saw the hand flip into knuckles up position each time this one dark-haired young man was visible—but it also happened when this very pert young brunette was visible; especially when the brunette's blouse was open at the top, or she wore a fine sweater that showed the unrestrained jiggle of her little boobies when she walked in rapid steps on her high heels. Once in a while, K would emit a heavy sigh, or even a tiny cry like some micro-climax. I gave her space, and hung back watching with my own bulge becoming painful from arousal.
K yawned. "It's getting late. Want to go to bed?"
"Sure." As she flicked off the TV with the remote, I rubbed her fanny. She yawned again. She didn't push me away, but said: "I'm very tired, Peter. Maybe we can make love in the morning."
I accompanied her down the hall. We hung our robes on a chair together (the robe had been left by her ex, a highly intelligent looking balding man still gracing her bedroom along with a photograph of their son at age one and a happily smiling K. Sometimes she tossed her panties over the portrait as if to shield their innocent gaze. Or maybe it was to insult her ex.
K kissed me goodnight and turned away. "Night, honey," she said, yawning again. She set her alarm for work the next morning, and turned out the light. I lay behind her, in a netherworld, inhaling her scent and enjoying her warmth. I pressed my groin against her buttocks and was pleased by the way her waist curved up into the mandolin-curve of her hip and thigh.
She laughed throatily. "I feel someone." Normally, on the rare occasions when she was really too tired, she would say "not tonight, honey" and kiss me lavishly to make up for the denial. I knew on those occasions I should fall rapidly asleep, for I could take her in the morning. We made love often in the morning—a short, puppy thing, in which one woke first and started humping the other.
More than once, I woke up to find my erection inside a wet oyster, and K's face straining above me as she @ed herself with my dick. Or I would waken, roll half onto her, push her knee away with mine so I could get between her thighs—she still sleeping, mumbling in some dream, maybe flickering a smile or licking her lips in dazed confusion, while I slid the ram of my sex into her. If she was dry, she rapidly got wet. Sometimes I had to rub my spit on my cock to moisten it for the initial penetration, but once it was in, it was really pleasurable. A morning @. The cock crows. But now it was night, and she actually felt my erection before I knew I had one. She laughed again. "You can do a quickie if I don't have to do anything."
I kissed her behind the ear. Sincerely, I said: "Thank you, baby. I love you for that." I never told any of the Summers and Julys that I loved them. The words could not cross over my lips, so frightened was I of commitment. But I could condition it like that. "I love you for letting me put my rod into your sweet little sleepy pussy." She liked that, and made a long hum of satisfaction as she lifted her upper thigh to let me in, doggie style. My cock had been hard for at least an hour watching her diddle herself, and I must have been dribbling sperm all over the place. Now, as the head slid between her legs, looking for her moist hole, I was lubricating my way by dribbling ahead. She did one thing: she reached down and diddled her finger under the head of my cock, where that little thin blue triangle of dorsal skin extends from the chin of the head down to the shaft.
I put my hand on her buttock and pushed her an inch or so forward, rolling her hip away to open the space between her legs a little more. As I did this, she lost touch with my dick and I did all the rest from there. I think she was so tired that she fell asleep right then, as her hand flopped onto the bed.
I pulled the sheet and blanket up over us so that we were enveloped in a sheath of comforting darkness and warmth. She sighed happily in her sleep and spooned snuggling back against me. I wanted to see if my cock (my 'little man') could find his own way, and he did. I stretched one arm up above my head as I lay with my face against her spine. I rested the other hand on her thigh.
My little man got into the crack of her ass, pressed against her pink butt flower (she murmured 'no no' in her sleep) but then, moving just an inch further, he slid into that comforting slippery hot hole. Her butt cheeks wiggled in her sleep as if they were happy. I think they were happy buttocks, with that hard meat between them. I waited a minute for my cock to grow to its full erect size.
She murmured snoozily as she felt her oyster expand with the pressure. Oyster juice swirled around my shaft as she got turned on. After all, she'd been watching those gorgeous women and those handsome men for over an hour and playing with herself, without getting near the relief afforded by a great climax.
Or maybe she'd had several tiny mouse-sized climaxes characterized by a sigh or a tiny shriek. Getting @ed in her sleep was, for K, a bit like letting sleep itself overwhelm her. It became part of slipping away into a deep, wondrous sleep in which her insides had a sexual implosion—a nearly silent arousal and climax. When I was hard, I started pumping. She was so wet that it caused her little friction and no discomfort. Even her thighs were slippery so that they felt girlishly smooth.
For both of us, the pleasure came not so much from friction but from pressure. My hard cock in her tight oyster—and her ass spread across my groin and my free arm over that voluptuous thigh—I came in shudders and she squirmed with her butt in my groin so that she wiggled as if she were peeing and shaking out the last few drops. It was over in a minute or two, that quickie, and we both fell fast asleep.
In the morning, I woke first. I lay on my side, pretty much as I had fallen asleep. She lay on her back with an angelic look on her face. The lines beside her mouth had softened and almost disappeared, and her eyes were a little shadowed, but she looked relaxed and rested. I liked doing these quickies with her with as little prolog as possible—the very fact that I would take her so quickly and hungrily added its own little frisson. It telescoped foreplay into the play itself. It was almost naughty in a way, because it wasn't supposed to be done this way.
So I got on my knees between her legs. I put my hands under her knees and lifted so that I pushed her thighs back and opened the entire vista of her pink domain. She kept on sleeping, though I'm sure she was partially conscious and enjoying it. She had a pleasant, almost-smile, and she did reach down with one hand, first to scratch the hair on her Venus mound, then to brush her labia to see how open and wet they were. From the smacking sound as she dragged her fingers through the gap between her labia, and from the way her pussy parted limply showing her pee hole and the round opening of her oyster, I knew she was wet for me.
I slipped into her and pounded away. She started to awaken, and held her thighs up for me so that I could rest my knuckles gorilla-style on both sides of her while my entire body turned into a battering ram that made flesh slap noisily and splash with stray secretions. She rested her calves on my shoulders and put her hands on my ribs, as if trying to help. We came together in a chorus of groans, and then laughed as we rolled and tumbled on the bed.
I pressed her down so she lay on her stomach. I made big playful sucking sounds with my lips on her buttocks, and she squealed as it tickled. I licked her crack and diddled the flower of her anus, but that was her limit. She turned onto her back, and I turned my mouth loose on the fine connective structure between her oyster and her thighs, where I found more loose flesh to suck on. "You're giving my hickeys all over!" she cried as she pushed at my head, though not hard enough to end my contact.
"Who cares?" I said. "Nobody is going to see."
We lay beside each other resting, during a 15 minute interval before she had to get up for work. "I think about you at work," she said.
"Do you get horny?"
"Yes."
"Do you walk over to the copy machine and let it jiggle between your thighs while it makes copies?"
She laughed. "No. I think there is one secretary downstairs who does that, but she is so subtle that you'd never know."
"So what do you do?"
"You really want to know?" She looked at me shamefaced yet eager to tell. It was a 'show me yours and I'll show you mine' moment.
"Yes. I want to think about you while you're at work." I was unemployed at the time, and spent my days looking for a part-time job at a library, which made her feel good.
"Do you ever masturbate thinking about me while I'm at work?" she asked.
"I think about it, but I don't." She looked a little disappointed, and I added: "...because I save it all up for you."
"Aw, that's nice."
"So what do you do?"
"When I'm horny, thinking about you, I have this electric pencil sharpener by my side. I pretend to sharpen a pencil, and I hold it against my bush, and it sends just the right vibes, right through the hood of my clit, so that I get one of these silent, gooshey orgasms."
"And if someone walks in?"
"I pretend that I have hiccups. I put my fist to my mouth and make a face as I recover from my sex. I can fake it really well. People have walked in once or twice, and gotten all concerned that maybe I was choking. I put a few peanuts on the desk to let them think that. I can almost picture my boss lady walk in and give me a lecture about eating while I sharpen pencils." We laughed together. K was very inventive that way.
The whore thing was one of our fantasies. It wasn't really a whore thing, but a sort of verbal foreplay fantasy. The whore thing might go like this, as we lay entwined on the couch in our robes, with the TV on mute and K absently diddling herself.
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