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"Hush!" I scold, giving her pussy a slap and twisting a nipple. "You'll wake the neighbors." She doesn't hear me, though. She's in the zone.
With her feet planted on the floor, she pushes her hips upward in search of my hand, lifting her ass off the sofa and crushing my chest with her shoulders. I release her nipple and allow both hands to settle between her legs, one focusing on her clit while the other dips deeper to slide a couple fingers into her wet cunt.
The scent of her arousal permeates my mind, and I want to taste her—to drive her crazy with my tongue. But that's too easy, too fast—for both of us. This rendezvous requires at least a little patience. Plus, I'm waiting for something.
She bucks against my hands, trying to prolong the contact, but I'm not ready for her to come. Not yet. When I move both hands to her tits, her fervor calms a bit and she seems to concentrate on the sensations—moaning softly. A light sheen of sweat coats her body. It catches the moonlight.
Once she's backed away from the edge, I feel her fingers exploring my pussy and I allow her to play for a while before returning one of my hands to her sex. I take her back to the edge, then again calm her. Twice. She's writhing and gasping and begging me to let her come, but I'm still not ready.
I hear a small noise and look up to find him leaning against the doorway, watching us. She hasn't noticed, being unable to see and too lost in her own pleasure to hear him.
Now, I'm ready.
"Be still now," I say and wait for her to comply, delivering another slap to her pussy to emphasize my words. "Listen to me. We have company. Are you ready for this?"
The End.
Ghouls Just Wanna Have Fun
I fucking hate Halloween. Hate it with every fiber of my being. Stupid fucking holiday. All that teeth-rotting candy. Snot-nosed kids squealing "Trick-or-Treat, smell my feet..." Teens in lame costumes who, if thwarted, will egg a house. Extremely annoying if you ask me—and totally pointless.
My Halloween routine typically consists of either: (a) going to a movie, or (b) sitting alone in the dark, pretending I'm not home. Either way, I inevitably have a mess of egg or toilet paper to
clean up the next day—even if I leave a big bucket of candy on the front step. Fucking adolescent malcontent ingrate hoodlums.
Friends try to lure me to costume parties or bar shindigs where even adults behave like sugar-starved idiots. Puh-leeze. Give me a good book and a mug of spiced cider—and just leave me the fuck alone. I'll resurface when the insanity is over. They call me The Great Scrooge Pumpkin. So be it.
But, let me tell you about this year. This year things didn't go exactly as planned. This year, I opted for Plan B since there wasn't a damned thing playing at the cinemas that I was even remotely interested in seeing. Fucking slasher flicks—Jason, Freddy—in nearly every theater. Why anyone would pay money for that shit is beyond me.
Anyway, I was prepared. Books—two new novels by my favorite author—and cider were on hand. I made myself a great dinner, then spent an hour soaking in the Jacuzzi, reading. Then, I wrapped myself in my softest, oldest, comfiest bathrobe. "Relaxed" doesn't quite capture the way I felt, but it's the closest I can come. Geez, I'll take that kind of solitude over the mass hysteria any day!
I put on some soft instrumental music to drown out the raucous sounds coming from the street, lit a few scented candles, and curled up at the end of the sofa with my cider. The curtains were drawn and all the lights extinguished except for a tiny reading lamp. I was about two hundred pages into the first novel, and enjoying myself immensely, when I first heard it.
Initially, I thought it came from outside. A soft thump, kind of like an under inflated basketball hitting the roof. I listened for a bit but the sound did not recur. Oh, well. Probably kids. There was no way I was going outside to investigate, so no use wasting any more time wondering about it.
There was a strong breeze, although the weather was unseasonably warm. I had glimpsed the skimpy costumes of a few pseudo sluts through the curtains of my bedroom window earlier. Young minds often think such exhibitions will attract true love. They'd have to learn the hard way—like I did. A beautiful body was one thing—and a fleeting one at that. A beautiful mind, on the other hand, was to be forever treasured.
My attention returned to the book in my hands, and just as I was really getting back into it, that noise came again. Closer this time. Perhaps just outside the nearest window. Accompanying it, a feeling—a vibe. Not malicious. I did not feel fear but instead an intense curiosity, which I struggled to put aside. Nothing was going to distract me from the enjoyment of my solitude.
It was nearing nine o'clock, which was the end of the Trick-or-Treat period designated by the county. Things would be quieting down very soon, I hoped. Once again, I dove back into my novel—but settling into it was difficult. My thoughts kept returning to that sound, and oddly...a smell. As if a window was ajar on a humid June night, the scent of blooming honeysuckle filled the air. Cloying and sweet, it made me want to throw open the windows, although I knew the honeysuckle was long gone.
These thoughts, for some unknown reason, made me intensely aware of my bare skin beneath the robe. Each movement a caress of soft fabric. Every inch of my skin on alert, sensing. I held very still, thinking to prevent the exquisite feathery friction against my nipples, my ass, my thighs. It was no use. The robe seemed to move of its own accord, touching me and waking heated emotions.
I forced myself to continue reading, but it was futile. My imagination had been stirred, and once that happens—well, let's just say it's a very powerful thing. My concentration shattered, I realized that the only way I'd be able to get back on track was to masturbate and just get it out of my system. Fine. A minor detour, and one that would be pleasant enough. I'd dealt with this type of distraction often. It was a helluva lot easier—and less messy—than finding a partner. More efficient, too. Quick. Simple. No entanglements. I liked it that way.
So, I put my book down, grabbed a candle, and headed upstairs. My vibrator was old, but still quite functional. It had a lot of mileage on it, and I knew I'd soon have to shop for another. What a nuisance that would be. I pulled it from the drawer of my nightstand and clicked it on to check the batteries. Nice steady hum. Plenty of power for a quickie. Opening the front of my robe, I lay down on the bed and ran the tip along my cleft.
As soon as the vibrator made contact with my skin, it quit humming. I looked at it, puzzled. Shook it. The hum returned, so I tried again. And again, as soon as it touched my skin, it stopped. Knowing laughter echoed in my mind. Voices. Several voices, chuckling. "Use your hands," they urged. "Your toy won't work."
"Get the fuck out of my head," I said aloud, both surprising and embarrassing myself. There was no one there, yet their presence was unmistakable and the smell of honeysuckle even stronger. I've always loved that scent—the real thing, not bottled—and the word, too: HONEY... SUCKLE. So seductive. It has always made me crave the taste of skin, of moist pink places that hide beneath clothing.
I was pulled to my feet and my robe removed before being returned to the bed. Their touch was strong, but gentle. Gender indeterminate. At first, I resisted—just to resist. My initial reaction when told to do something, whether I want to do it or not, is to refuse. I was not seeking a phantom sexual encounter. It wasn't my idea, so I wouldn't cooperate. So there. I mentally stuck out my tongue.
Looking back, it astonishes me that I never once considered the absurdity of the situation—that the ghouls were real and in my bedroom taking advantage of me. I just jumped right over that mental hurdle and went straight to, "Oh, no you don't, buster!" I had plans, after all, and they did not include ghosts or spirits or whatever the fuck they were.
They quickly persuaded me otherwise. My mind was overtaken with images of bodies entwined, sweat shimmering on bare skin. I could feel the pounding of pulses, racing toward the pinnacle of passion. The sounds of skin meeting skin flooded my brain, accompanied by guttural moans and soft sighs. I was powerless in the face of this multi-sensory assault. The desire now raging in my mind overcame any innate resistance, and I surrendered.
I felt hands—or their equivalent—stroking my legs. Magnificent long, slow strokes. Their touch was hot, almost uncomfortably so, such that I felt a delicious chill when they left my skin. When they neared my sex, my body arched in vain search of contact. Repeatedly, they teased me and withdrew. Closer each time.
