by Neale Sourna
I’d, again, forgotten the question, when confronted with a query that could be construed as asking about my deepest feelings for her. Then, I realized Hopkins was laughing, loudly, at me; the laugh almost sounded empathetic . . . almost.
[story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]
My skin was crawling with too much energy running wild inside me and there was no one I could reasonably beat the shit out of, to make myself feel better. It was bad enough dealing with Hopkins alone but him with Stephie as well was too much. There’s nothing like an enemy, who knows you inside out and isn’t afraid to use that knowledge to cut you off at the knees. My only personal redemption was that we’d spent a lot of time apart these past few years and there was no way she knew my every thought, plus there was no way Stephie could know my every reaction when it came to Day.
I didn’t know that myself.
Day touched my trousered leg, I pulled away then reached for her to rip the locket off over her head. I went back inside to get my keys and drove until I was afraid I’d run someone over in my preoccupation and rage. I found a patch of green and, inappropriately dressed, just ran until I’d run the circumference of it more times than I could remember and it was getting too dark to see.
Eventually, I drove back to the house where Day was sitting outside, her eyes hidden in the darkness by black shades, with her knees pulled up tight to her chest. All she had to do was tuck her head and she’d be the embodiment of the human football she seemed to be. Mrs. G was soothingly, absentmindedly stroking Day’s hair, way past her usual knockoff time, which meant Hopkins wasn’t around.
I asked if Stephie had called recently for him, she had. I’d spoken with Steph and she’d known when I’d get back. The bitch had warned him to not be around when she tilted my temper over the edge with her visual gift. At least she didn’t want me going to jail for assault and battery or homicide. Also, Stephie, in her usual quest to control anyone and everyone, obviously hadn’t imparted excessive info about me to fellow control freak Hopkins, or he would’ve been around breaking my balls about it, giving me grief in front of Day.
I told Mrs. G she could go, I wasn’t going anywhere for the night and I’d “keep an eye on our little knifewielder”. Mrs. G didn’t like my joke or the fact that “Ms. Day” was “so extremely upset”. I walked past them and inside, then heard Day softly beg her to “just go”, that she’d “be fine alone” with me. Day’s voice didn’t sound rock steady on the matter. Thankfully, Mrs. Gorbachev left for home.
I like Mrs. G a lot and have a great deal of respect for her; but, she misses a lot of the crap that goes on, no matter how much Day tells her; plus, she’s deferentially partial to Day’s side of nearly everything, whether the girl is “extremely upset” or not.
I was reeking from my run and still “extremely upset” myself, because the past few hours hadn’t actually abated my emotions much. I was pissed at Day for being Day, at my sister for being herself, at Hopkins . . . always . . . and was throwing a little self-loathing in for letting my libido and ego suck me so deep into all of this.
I also still greatly wanted to hold Day tightly to me, soothe and coo to her, and make it all better, take care of everything for her, which seemed a bit null and void after only less than two weeks gone. Despite that and more importantly, I’d been without her for all that time and, despite the video, I still wanted her very badly.
Being pissed is such a burdensome bitch.
I’d reemerged from . . . soaking my head in the tub. I would have stayed under longer but I haven’t yet acquired Aquaman’s® useful knack of breathing underwater. Or, of not wanting to be with Day. I was massaging myself . . . my masculine self, shall we say . . . geez, I had my dick in my hand, hazily thinking of her, when I turned to see she was at the door on her side of the bathroom.
“Come here, Day.”
She looked at me oddly then disappeared, perhaps my emotions were too raw and naked on my face. I jumped out to pursue her.
“Day!”
When I entered her room she was half way across it, her back to me, frozen in place, evidently, since I’d last barked her name, knowing there was no way she could outrun me in this life or the next. I was sopping wet and leaving a water trail as I went to her and took a good look at the back of her; at her thick hair, the slope of her back, the round promise of her ass, which I covetously touched before spooning her against me. I know she felt my desire for her pressing hard along her spine, as I harshly whispered in her ear.
“Get on the bed.”
She didn’t move and I scooped her up and threw her on it. I made her face me and she modestly tugged her dress down, as I took my first really good look at her, since I’d returned and ended up watching homemade porn sent by my loving sister.
[story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]
He’d been back for weeks, and between Hopkins’ regular His Royal Majestyness power trips and his added, extra, new illness-generated orneriness and her many divergent . . . moods eating away at mine, she’d managed to royally piss me off, again, in that pierce through me way only Day is able to do. Stephie busts my balls but Day, unintentionally or intentionally, can bust raw places in me no one else can touch. And, despite my knowing why she was doing it, she still managed to get to me; only this time, I had no where to go, or run to, because I’d finally learned, slowly but clearly, that it was pointless to run.
I’d no where else I no longer wanted to pretend to go to, or pretend to run to, because I would come back to her. No matter that she was repeatedly convincing herself to anger me to make me go, because she still feared I would, especially now that she’d gotten a peek at how I used to live.
So, I sat my butt down on my favorite big armchair on the beachside porch, to stare out to sea . . . ocean . . . whatever. Considering her innate ability to get inside and read my most tenaciously secret mind and heart was as sharp as ever—her perpetual fear of abandonment by me wasn’t completely groundless.
I was riled yet comfortably not going anywhere, as I half waved at Steve, our neighbor Penelope’s husband. He habitually stretches in front of Hopkins’ house, instead of his own. The stair to the beach floor is convenient to lean on and he likes to get a close peek at the lady of the house, when possible. No one but me was in sight, so, unfulfilled, he jogged up the shore towards my former hotel.
Hopkins was inside “doing his books”. Actually, what he was mostly doing was staring at them and not triple checking and rebalancing his accountant’s balances, as usual, because his numbing illness now thoroughly affected his ability to correctly understand that kind of blandly intense detail.
And . . . he was gloating, since Day had me thoroughly pissed at her.
The man was always hopeful in the idea that I’d get tired of her and go. And, probably just as hopeful that I’d never leave, since without me, he could no longer control her, especially now that he was too ill to manhandle her. So, though they disagreed on just about everything, my personal potential for abandoning her was the one concept Day and Hopkins mutually shared.
Poor Mrs. G had half mumbled that she was going to the store a half hour or more before, apparently off to buy pepper or such just to get a breather from us all.
Day wandered out, without saying anything to me, as she stood smack in front of me, blocking my line of sight of ocean, with her calico covered backside. I was trying to decide if I should let it go, move, lean to the side, or close my eyes—.
She turned around. Her skirt was up, her hand under its tail, her fingers wet from their warm activity between the “bearded lips of her womanhood”, as my Peruvian, maternal grandmother might’ve said, once you translated.
I sighed.
The bitch was not going to fight fair or leave me be; she was going to drive me terribly insane by pushing me away then dragging me back by the delicate nads. I stared at her gently moving fingers, then glanced away after I realized I was “smelling her”, “tasting her”, “feeling
the soft contours of those hidden folds of her” in my sense memory.
She recaptured my eyes’ fascinated attention when she slightly fucked her pelvis against her fingers, with a grunting sigh, then came to me, letting the dress’ hem drop. I pulled my head back a bit from her, but it wasn’t much of a defensive tactic, and only halfhearted at best, as she wiped the taste of her cunt across my lips.
I pulled her hand away, which wafted her scent past my famished nostrils, as I barely managed a short wait before I licked up her flavor, which I believe she took as her cue. Day pulled a large pillow from the next chair to kneel on, between my thighs, which she ran her palms along the insides of, until finding the fleshy lump she sought, causing me to shift in my chair, but not to push her from me.
She kissed and licked and nipped at my bared stomach, unbuttoning my pants to hungrily explore me down to the pubic line, as, through my pants, she petted me, molded me . . . forced me far from my initial, aloof anger and to a lusting hardness.
“Pull out your cock for me.”
My gut and balls yearned after the possibility she’d now aroused in my mind let alone the true physical ache her successful mouth and hand techniques were generating in me, as I glanced over the beach in harsh daylight, stretching wide and empty to either side of us. I glanced back through the window behind me and couldn’t see anyone inside, only the reflection of myself and her and the world.
“Not out here, Day.”
She smiled, wickedly. Wickedly, is the only way to describe how she smiled at me, as she pressed with delightful insistence on my perineum; on a guy, that’s that real sweet spot between his nads and anus. She pleasurably pressed on it through the soft cotton fabric of my chinos, making my breath catch, especially as I had nothing on under the pants. In my remaining at the house with her, I’d taken to rarely wearing underpants when I wasn’t going out. My buttocks, of their own accord, tightened, pushing me to be with her.
“Day.”
I’m afraid it came out more as a faintly restrained plea than warning, especially after she unbuttoned her tightly bodiced dress, to the point of her breasts cascading out, which helped her petition to me a great deal.
“Don’t say you don’t want this . . . like this, Benn. That woman you were engaged to before, who wouldn’t openly show her pleasure at being with you—not even privately—she never risked everything of herself for you, did she? And, you really wanted that, didn’t you? You wanted her open to you, to entirely expose herself to you . . . shame herself even to the world . . . .”
She paused briefly.
“Yeah, especially that, because you wanted . . . needed for her to want you . . . more than anyone or . . . anything else, including her pride and her hardhearted self-importance.” She winked playfully. “And, we both know I have no shame or . . . pride or . . . any of that. Right? Especially when it comes to you.”
I thought I heard a sound in the house but I must’ve been wrong. She was so deep inside my head, rattling around inside me where no one else but me had ever been, skillfully wrapping her will around the most protected, most delicate part of my ego. Day was being a touch playful but she knew, and she knew I knew, that she had me by more than my balls and enthusiastic cock.
And, I never answered her questions because I could barely think at all or manage to form an audible word.
That Steve would be heading back this way faintly occurred to me; but, my knees widened, giving her more access to me. She buried her face in my crotch and gently gnawed at me through the fabric, the enticing novelty of it, making me precum, as I pushed her head into me. She licked at the wet spot and huskily restated her previous request.
I complied and finished unbuttoning.
My pants were loose, with a wide opening, and it was little effort to pull my eager, thickly stiffening cock forth for her, the sensitive head of which she took immediately into her mouth, sucking off what was left of my “predew”, which hadn’t smeared inside my trousers.
Her mouth was hot and exactly what I wanted, her grip on my shaft . . . firm and commanding. I barely cared that Steve was in sight and getting nearer, and would doubtlessly stop again at our stair for a last cooldown stretch and “lookey-loo” for Day. A “lookey-loo” being what Chuck’s wife, who was in real estate, always called those, who looked but never bought.
Steve waved.
I didn’t acknowledge his existence, as he paused for his cooldown, which never happened, once he saw Day’s curl topped, dark head between my thighs, with a good substantial bit of my length rammed down her throat. He made some kind of noise, and she glanced around without letting go of me before pulling up and off me so he could see all, as she licked me, kissed me, reswallowed me, to the beneficial pleasure of both him and me—teasing him, pleasing me.
The thought (another of those stray, stupid, inopportune thoughts of mine) came unbiddened—of how she’d come to her high skill level . . . which still bothered me. Not the skill itself; but . . . . Thanks a bunch for fucking up my head, Carlyle, your job is done.
Mrs. G was right about her though, Day is a nice girl, a woman a man can’t help but like, most of the time. However, Doc ‑ tor Car ‑ lyle’s descriptions [I didn’t tell you the half of his explicit details.] of what he and the others had . . . taught her, flared and burned in my mind. It was the visualizing of Carlyle and . . . those faceless others with her, hurting her for their own entirely selfish pleasures; but, I let them fade with the warm manipulations of her tongue and lips and my own lust to be taken by her, in that . . . public and masterfully obeisant manner.
I know guys, who have a preference, a taste, shall we say, for sexual virgins and not often fucked “nonvirgins”. These guys thrive on a woman’s inexperience—if she doesn’t already know what he can do to make her crotch ache, then he doesn’t have to sweat it that she never gets hers while he gets his. I was never like that and I always liked that Day was experienced . . . accomplished even, which heightened the sexual high stakes game between us.
I just never liked how she had gotten her higher education.
Which probably is a half-hidden mental and emotional quandary for me, a little landmine filled quagmire that’ll probably one day go BOOM.
Another reason, in case you hadn’t noticed, of why I was still with her, was that Day was very right, more than right that I completely got off on her open, violent affections for me. On her open lust for me in general. On the fact that Steve couldn’t take his eyes off what she was doing with me, as he crept up to the top step, while massaging himself through his jogging shorts, before half pushing them down to pull out his stiffened rod and balls . . . none of which fazed me. She was most likely a masturbatory sex fantasy of his already.
Even probably while he and Penelope went at it.
The fact that Day was messing with the minds of both of us simultaneously was something that should have horrified me, perhaps; but, I was the one who’d moved in, knowing she could only come to me after Hopkins, literally, came first.
She paused a moment, as if she’d heard or seen something then released the throttle control her hand had held on the base of my exposed shaft, so that I could pump up and fuck her throat deeply. Not something every woman volunteers for . . . or can manage, and with any other woman I’d try hard not to pump and fuck her throat; but, Day’s nearly spoiled me with it. Swallowing a cock of any length or thickness is something I know I could never manage without tossing the full contents of my gut. The fact that she says she doesn’t permit Hopkins to throat fuck her . . . makes it especially sweet.
On second thought, she has . . . completely spoiled me, perhaps even to the exclusion of anyone else.
While I recall long discussions in the dressing and locker rooms for years at work, where other men said they wanted oral or more oral, and also anal sex, as well, from their beloveds, and were not getting it, Ms. Day now had me entirely hooked.
Another thing you may not have perceived by now, because you fel
l asleep or have been jacking off, is that there’s so much that goes on in a man’s head, about rewards and punishment, lust and love, public and private. Evil and Good. Perhaps, I should’ve thanked Carlyle at that moment, as she attended to my . . . need, as I benefited from his astute and useful tutoring, which probably sounds like some sort of betrayal of her, by male bonding.
Well, someone once said, “Women want to be appreciated.” Well, men want to be cherished and spoiled too, and worship of a man’s cock, which is a major focal point of his own, by the woman he desires, goes a very long way.
Day had rethrottled my penis, curtailing my deep thrusting, because, in knowing my body, she knew I was about to cum, and she was in total control of this part of this fuck. She taunted me, instead of letting me cream her esophagus, by making me wait further, as she pulled off then rubbed her astonishing face against my hard cock, while she fingerfucked her cunt, which I could hear because of its extreme wetness, and which I very acutely wanted more than anything in any universe . . . .
“You fucking, controlling, little queen bitch. Mount me . . . fuck me.”
The chair was big enough for us both, as I picked her up, not wanting to wait for her tender ankles to propel her up. She eagerly slipped onto my lap and I wasted no time entering her, the feeling of which pulled an enormous groan from me, and a sweet, throaty, little whine from her, as she put her hand on the large window behind us for leverage.
I only remembered Steve when he shifted his position on the step, which seemed to hold him transfixed, as if to say one more step up to standing onto the porch with us, was too close; but, where he was, was okay. I didn’t fucking care. His new spot gave him a better view of her breast closest to him, as it jiggled voluptuously to our fucking rhythm. She whispered in my ear—making me party to her driving him over the edge, as I hiked the fabric up high off her ass, per her instructions, to let him clearly see her getting enthusiastically spiked on my dick.