After Midnight (4 page)

 

 

 

 

 

H
ere's something you should know about my girlfriend: She's obsessed with equality. She's a Libra. The scales must always balance. It's Sunday afternoon, and she's going to her mother's. Before she leaves, she makes it a point to remind me that it's my turn.

“Please make sure you do all the dishes.”

“Yup.” I'm lying on the couch in an old stained T-shirt, watching TV.

“Are you listening?”

I tear my eyes from the screen and look at her attentively.

“It's not fair,” she says. “I always do a very thorough cleaning job and I would like to see you do the same. For once.”

Here's the thing you should know about me: I'm a procrastinator. My motto is, “Why do something today when you can put it off and end up not doing it at all?” So after she leaves, I stay on the couch like I'm glued to it, one eye on the clock,
knowing I should start. But come on, cleaning sucks, right? I keep telling myself,
Five more minutes.

Then those five minutes are up and I think,
Okay, just five more minutes.

This could end badly.

Then bingo! I get an idea. I remember the time we read Betty Dodson's
Sex for One
out loud to each other. We alternated chapters, of course, to keep it even. I remember a story about a woman, this housewife, who would clean for an hour then lie down for five minutes to tease herself with her vibrator, then get up for another hour with five minutes of fun waiting at the end.

I think,
I'm there!

I'm up and running, my mind racing. We don't have a big apartment to clean, so I perform some quick modifications on the concept. I know it'll work. I'm a genius!

Here are my rules:

1. I have to keep upright, no lying down.

2. I have to keep cleaning without stopping for any significant amount of time.

3. But while I'm cleaning, I can get off any way I want.

And then I throw in a curve ball:

4. The blinds have to stay open.

 

I start with the dishes. There are a lot of them. I'm gonna be here for a while, standing in front of the sink. Pulling out a greasy pan, I start with a dirty fantasy: I picture that woman in Dodson's book putting in a load of laundry then kneeling over her Hitachi Magic Wand, teasing her cunt a little, then pulling back, then teasing again. It's getting me going.

Reaching to the windowsill for the steel wool, I feel my hip brush against something hard. It's the handle on the fake drawer that fronts the sink. I scrub and scrub and oh-so-casually wiggle
down to see if I can get the little gold knob into a position I can use. Oh, yes. If I stand in close, it pushes neatly against my clit. God bless our landlord for the thoughtful renovation he did on our kitchen. The next fifteen minutes of dishes fly by. I quickly wipe down the counters and turn to the stove. Lots of baked-on crud there. I scrub and scrub and check out the action on the knobs on the stove: right height but a bit pointy. And I'm also afraid I'll make a wrong move and accidentally set myself on fire. Not a pretty picture. I move on.

The living room is full of possibilities. I have little moments as I lean up against the table edge while I polish it, or straddle the arm of the sofa while I plump up the cushions. But if I really have to keep cleaning without stopping, I can't linger in these delights. I miss my friend, the gold knob in the kitchen. We got so much work done together.

There has to be a way. Then, holding the can of Pledge between my legs for a moment while I dust, I have an idea. I go to the closet in the bedroom. The one with the sex-toy box. The door opens at an angle that hides what I'm doing. That's right, nosy lady across the street, I'm just getting some cleaning supplies. I dig around until I come up with the prize: the lavender dildo my girlfriend and I bought last week at Babeland. I slip it into my underwear with the flared base lying against my clit, while the curved head dips into my wetness. And, boy, am I wet.

On to the bathroom. I squat, I lean, I lunge, I reach. Every turn exerts a new pressure in my pussy, every angle another sweet sensation. Then the bedroom. While I'm squirming across the bed to tuck in the far corner of the sheet, the dildo shifts and slides all the way inside. I moan and rock a little to anchor it inside more firmly. Standing up, I take a few experimental steps to see if it'll slide out. It stays put, and I hang up the laundry enjoying the satisfying feeling of fullness.

I'm in the homestretch now. Just the vacuuming to go. But my clit is crying out for something to rub against, and I don't want to pull out the dildo. Before I start the vacuum cleaner, I stop at the sex-toy box. I pull out an egg-shaped vibrator and slip it into my panties. The remote control goes into my pocket. I don't turn it on. Not yet.

Ah, vacuuming, a one-handed job. My free hand strays into my pocket and flicks on the switch, just for a few seconds. I like the buzz, so I give myself another hit. Halfway through the living room, I decide to leave the vibrator on at low buzz. By the time I get to the bedroom, it's on high and every step I take pushes me closer to the brink. Just the study to go.

I don't want to turn the vibrator down, so while I thrust the vacuum under the desk, I think of cold showers and ice, like some kind of football jock who can't keep his little man down. That does it. I drop the vacuum and straddle my girlfriend's office chair. I imagine I'm a golden boy-hunk of muscle, giving it to her, fucking her deep with my great big dick. I arch my back and come hard and long. The blood rushes to my head, and I see black spots in front of my eyes. They clear up, but the rushing in my ears won't go away. Then I realize it's the vacuum I've left running.

I peel myself off the chair and pick up the vacuum. I spot a dust bunny in the corner and aim for it. But the fantasy isn't letting go. In my fantasy, my girlfriend, who I've just nailed, pulls me from behind. I drop the vacuum and let her push me to the floor. “Where do you think you're going, big boy?” she says, lifting her little cheerleader skirt. She straddles me and grinds her wetness on my belly, then leans down and whispers in my ear. “We're not done yet,” she says. “ 'Cause now it's my turn.”

 

 

 

 

 

D
igging through the stack of magazines by my girlfriend Larissa's bed (mostly
Ebony
and
Sports Illustrated
, with some
Vanity Fair
s and a few motorcycle magazines thrown in for good measure), I find a copy of
Hustler
. It's two years old and the cover's a little creased, but the women look the same as if their photos were printed today. Their bodies are glistening with oil, or maybe sweat. Their breasts jut straight out, varnished and hard. Their tiny tufts of pubic hair point the way to carnation-pink insides, tinted in Photoshop by an art assistant who probably pinkens hundreds of pussies a month.

There'd be no reason for Larissa to hide the magazine from me. She knows I love porn, the skankier the better. I'm sure it was just absentmindedly shoved toward the bottom of the pile. Still, I've never seen a magazine like this one in her house. As far as I know, she never buys the stuff, not even
Playboy
. In fact, she claims to hate straight porn. Can't stomach all that cock, or the long-nailed skinny white girls. When I talk about images
that get me hot—women tied up, submissive, debased, begging for it—she reminds me that she has feminist sensibilities, and the look she gives me embarrasses both me and my libido.

I wonder if Larissa jerks off while looking at these pictures. Suddenly I realize that in the year we've been together, I've never once seen her masturbate. I've prodded myself with every toy she owns, as well as a few juicy-looking kitchen implements. Pranced around her house naked, save for a butt plug in my ass and clamps on my nipples. All for her enjoyment. Her titillation. But she has never once reciprocated. “I'm a voyeur,” she tells me.

How does Larissa do it? Does she use a vibrator? Does she even take off her pants? I imagine her thick fingers parting her bush, finding her hard clit. The fingers at the end of her wellmuscled, cocoa-brown arms. The same fingers that feel so good burrowing deep down in my cunt. The fingers she uses to tease my pussy open before her fist—jammed against my cervix—reduces me to a panting, mewing, begging hole. Those fingers. My lover's fingers.

“Small hard circles,” she tells me when I touch her. As if I would try anything else. I love it when she tenses up, her clit a hard knot beneath my tongue; her fist clutching a handful of my hair, shoving my face into her wetness until I can't breathe. She holds me there, and I take a big breath before she starts in on me, because there will be no more air for me until she finishes.

The thought of her looking at these dirty pictures, jeans pushed down, fingers dipping into her drenched, salty cunt; making circles, furtively putting in a digit or two, then banging herself silly—oh, God, it makes me wet. I clench my thighs and concentrate on the heat in my crotch as I turn the pages. I wonder which spread does it for her the most. I bet it's the voluptuous black chick with the huge breasts getting the all-anal action. Yeah, that's the one all right.

The image is too much to bear, and my throbbing clit demands attention. I push up my skirt,
Hustler
girls forgotten. In my mind, Larissa is on her back. Her jeans and jockey shorts are bunched around her boots. Her smooth skin is clammy, and she's breathing hard. Her work shirt is open, and she's wearing clamps on her small, hard nipples. Her closely shorn hair is damp with sweat. She's jamming two fingers into her pussy and rubbing her clit at the same time. Her face is red, and all her muscles are tensed. She swears under her breath, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” as her fingers push her closer to orgasm. She groans and it sounds like a growl.

Oh, baby, let yourself go
, I think.
Let it come.
I push my panties to the side and softly touch my pussy. I'm slick with excitement. My fingers move quickly and lightly over my lips, spreading my wetness. My clit is a hard button, a marble. I roll it between my fingers. The excitement climbs up my cunt into my breasts and arms and hands. I'm on fire. Everything—pussy, ass, clit, fingers—is entwined in a burning knot of tight heat.

I lean back into the pillows and go to town on my aching clit. In my fantasy, Larissa is breathing hard. She's moaning loudly. I flip her over. She's on her knees taking it like a gay boy from some unseen top. She's yelling her head off, bucking against a hard cock, demanding it:
harder, faster, more.
In real life, Larissa comes quietly. She grunts softly and jerks her body off the bed. I'm the screamer. Sometimes she fucks me so hard that I'm hoarse the next day.

I come with a mixture of pleasure and guilt. Panties back in place, skirt down, the blush on my chest and neck begins to fade. Does Larissa know what I just did to her? Should I mention that I found her secret stash? I humbly close the magazine and stick it back into the middle of the pile, right where it was before, nestled snugly between Johnny Depp and Michael Jordan.

 

 

 

 

 

S
tretching back in my chair I looked over to the full-length window of my office to admire the view. Directly across from my building were the offices of the most prominent attorneys in Melbourne, and in one of them was the most beautiful woman I'd ever laid eyes on.

Even though we'd never spoken, I knew all about her. Her name was Audrey, and she was my secretary's flatmate—information I'd stumbled upon one evening as I was leaving the office. I saw the two of them running to catch the train, and I'd asked Amanda the following day who she was. She had even pointed out her office to me.

Every Friday in her office her lover would arrive, and every Friday I'd be at my window, watching, waiting to see her as only her lover did. They didn't disappoint me today, and as I reached for my binoculars I kicked my office door closed. Flicking the intercom switch, I spoke quickly to Amanda.

“No calls for the next hour, okay?” I snapped.

“Sure, Miss Jones,” she replied.

It was a perfect summer's night, and I had a crystal-clear view of her office.

There they were, kissing and fondling each other. They had no regard for anyone else, and I often wondered if they knew they were being watched. I settled back in my chair to watch their lovemaking. The other woman took off Audrey's jacket and then unzipped her skirt, dropping them both to the floor. Audrey stepped out of the skirt, kicking it away from her feet. She wore a black bra and half-slip. Suspenders and stockings peeked out below the slip.

Audrey wiggled her way onto the desk, a stiletto heel visible as the other woman ran her hand up her leg and down the outside of her thigh, then back up under the slip. She threw her head back as though laughing, her dark hair spilling down her back. Her lover was at the hollow of her throat, then moved toward her breasts.

Audrey's hands held the woman's head while she pushed her biceps together, forcing her breasts to practically spill from their cups as her lover buried her face into them. The woman pulled back, and I watched mesmerized as she slowly stripped out of her clothing, down to her underwear. She knocked Audrey's legs open as she moved back toward the desk.

They embraced again, kissing and groping each other. My pussy throbbing, I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. The woman's hands were behind Audrey's back where they un-clipped her bra, allowing her massive breasts to fall, swaying, as she discarded it.