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MIRRORED LIVES
RIQUE JOHNSON
ONE
April Jonston sat in the seating area of her bedroom’s bow window and watched the heavy rain pour down the windowpanes. She was lost, entranced by the varying water formations traveling down the glass. Flashes of light dancing at a distance indicated that a lightning storm was nearing.
She was in her mid-forties, or thirty-nine and holding, as she often stated when asked her age. She had shoulder-length black hair, dark sultry eyes and a smile as bright as the heavens. April remained high school skinny, a perfect size six, thanks to the personal trainer that worked her hard three times a week. Even though she was a college graduate, in a word she was a kept woman. She had never worked a single day; despite a degree in advertising. As fate dictated her future, she met her husband, Virgil Jonston, during her one and only job interview. He was the owner and CEO of the interviewing firm, Innovative Solutions. Virgil was captivated by her beauty and charm. He risked his entire fortune when he stopped the interview to tell her that he couldn’t go any further because he’d be hiring her for the wrong reason.
“Sue me, but I’ve been looking for someone like you my entire life,” were the bold words Virgil said to her that day. They still resonate in her mind today.
Shortly after that, April Miller became April Jonston and has lived a fairytale-like life since the first after-work drink on the interview day.
She looked down at the massive yard and saw an Olympicsized pool, tennis courts and a putting green all being reflected by the flashing lights. She had everything she’d imagined; a large house, a huge yard, the picketed fence as well as a good man in Virgil. Virgil lifted his head from the pillow, wiped the crust from his eyes, and watched his woman gaze out of the bow window.
“Are you okay, honey?” he asked.
“I’m fine. I just couldn’t sleep,” April lied.
“You’ve had a lot of that lately. Is there anything you’d like to discuss?”
“Truly, I’m fine. I’m drawn to storms. I’ve always been this way. I think they’re sexy.”
Virgil was two years younger than his wife. This fact didn’t bother him, nor did their height difference of two inches. Virgil was the shorter of the two. The one shortcoming that always weighed heavily on his mind was the size of his manhood. He carried plenty of mental anxiety because he possessed neither size, length, nor girth.
Throughout the years, upon meeting a potential mate, he used his wealth to buy gifts; all in an attempt to let his kindness outweigh his inadequacy. If the relationship turned physical, he used various creams, toys and things to please the woman. His size made intimacy a job instead of a pleasurable act.
Even though storm-gazing was pleasing to April, she was troubled and found it increasingly difficult to hide her sexual frustration.
“I’ve always known you to enjoy storms,” Virgil said. “The more violent the better, but hearing that they are sexy is something new. Still, two nights in a row makes me wonder. Come on, can I en
tice you with some thunder from down under?”
April’s head turned toward him; she boasted a bright smile. Virgil was pleased with her apparent acceptance of the invitation, but concealed behind her wondrous smile was an underlying agony of performing the act. She felt obligated to fulfill the duties as his spouse; even though neither her heart nor mind was into it. Eight years into the marriage, her husband hadn’t changed. He remained affectionate, caring, loving and attentive. However, his penis-size compensation efforts had lessened. The tongue and the toys were few and far between. Lately, the use of these items lacked the passion and precision they once had.
TWO
Ariel Johnson turned away from watching the rain dance on the window panes to respond to her husband’s sexual suggestion. The bright smile she returned to him accepted his invitation. She greeted the devilish smile from Steven with enthusiasm. Ariel was a woman two years younger than her forty-seven-year-old mate. Her hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. Her skin was flawless except for a scar just above her left eyebrow. Ariel took one step toward her husband and paused as a sense of déjà vu overcame her.
The flickering light coming through the window from behind, her husband’s gaze, everything right down to the waterfall-like pattern on the comforter that flowed from the bed to the floor felt as though she had lived through it before. She shook off the feeling and skipped toward the bed. After all, Steven Johnson was a master at pleasing a woman. He was the artist; she was his canvas. This was what she believed. This was how he made her feel. The thunder roared, Ariel screamed, and jumped into the arms of her man. Ariel and Steven’s sex life worked like a finetuned machine; much like other aspects of their lives together. They both were working middle-class that pooled the household’s resources together. This being the case, they could well afford the four-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bath and three-car garage home that had a yard large enough for the planned in-ground pool and tennis court. So, when Ariel lowered the silk robe off of her shoulders, Steven’s mouth closed around her nipple like a dance rehearsed a thousand times. Her body responded as if she had said, “You had me at hello.”
Ariel was on her knees, head tilted toward the bow window that mimicked a strobe light. Steven was on his knees facing her; one arm held her closely around the waist. With the other hand, he pinched the opposing nipple from his mouth. Even with her eyes closed, Ariel could sense the lightning flashes. She was hot with a passion that burned deep inside of her. There was a plethora of ways that lighted her fire, but her nipples carried the most fuel for her eroticism. Steven held a nipple between his thumb and pointer finger with ample pressure. The oversized electrode flattened like a marshmallow and the part that escaped the pressure formed an umbrella. He used the tip of his tongue to stroke back and forth along the exposed area beyond his fingertips.
Ariel’s womanhood had already moistened from the initial teasing with his mouth, but when he nibbled on the pressurized area, all bets were off.
“Fuck me now,” Ariel panted out of desire.
The instruction was not a demand. It was a need. Steven gazed intently into her eyes. He slowly removed the robe from her shoulders and pushed her backward, with the palm of his hand placed between her breasts. Ariel willingly lowered to her back and positioned her knees up with the legs spread apart, waiting for whatever her mate had in store for her. Steven attacked her with his hungry, eager tongue. It dove deep inside her haven with determination and purpose. He shaped his tongue like a scoop, glided it through the natural juices and swallowed the tasty treat after each time. He placed a hand behind each knee, raised her legs upward and licked her rectum as if he was trying to determine how many strokes were needed to get to the center of a lollipop. Ariel moaned when his tongue penetrated the entrance. His stroke was slow, deliberate and precise. Ariel’s passionate moans filled the air and seemed to drown out the periodic clap of thunder. His tongue moved up between her lower lips and danced artistically around her clitoris. Ariel screamed, uncontrolled and uninhibited, loud with vibrations that accompanied trembling legs.
His index finger slowly entered the lower passionate wormhole in conjunction with a thumb sliding through the womanhood’s wetness. Steven heard, “Oh shit” when he closed his lips around her clit. He repeatedly pressed both fingers together while he sucked her man-in-a-boat as if he was trying to detach it from her body. For most women, his actions on such a delicate part of the body would be too hard and rough, but for Ariel, the rougher the better. Ariel screamed uncontrollably, electrified by all senses. Her hips jerked to a sporadic rhythm only she and the universe understood.
THREE
April screamed when Virgil pressed his lips together; her clitoris was between them. The pressure was too great. It would have been one thing if he’d let his naturally soft lips tantalize her jewel, but he sucked his lips back like he had no teeth and gummed down reminiscent of crushing a cherry. She pushed his head backward; the sexual mood vanished completely like a magician’s sleight-of-hand trick. April slowly pulled an electric cord and freed the electronic device from her ass. A vibrant hum filed the air.
“Enough of this for tonight,” April said.
“I’m sorry, honey. Don’t be upset. I won’t be so rough,” Virgil pleaded.
“I’ve no idea of what’s gotten into you lately. All you seem to be interested in is causing me pain. If it isn’t squeezing me too hard, an overzealous roughness or the improper use of the toys, it must be a lack of interest. Maybe you no longer care about my needs,” April guessed. “You got yours,” April said emotionally.
She took a moment to reflect on how she sucked him off prior to him getting started on her. She recalled how she worked up an erection with her soft hands. It was Virgil’s favorite thing to have done to him, her hand fondling his penis and her mouth sucking on his nipple. His reaction was always the same. He rose to a stronger, younger-feeling erection. April sat on him for no other reason than to let him feel her wetness. That was her thing; any type of foreplay got her jewel as wet as an ocean stream. The downside was, she felt no friction, little penetration because of his size and her extreme wetness. Virgil, on the other hand, had a different story; all aspects of April’s womanhood felt like a warm cushiony gelatin.
As she rode his tool in the reverse cowboy position, different degrees of eroticism filled him. He was just that sensitive and neared a climactic state quickly. He never had real stamina, fully hardened or semi-hard. He could easily wear the three-minute man badge and could be the poster child for the organization, but not today. April recalled falling to the side and licked her juices from his joystick. Her tongue moved up his shaft and made slow circles around Virgil’s head. She had always enjoyed her taste. Years of fingering herself to pick up where her husband lacked had turned her into a pussy juice addict. She would always have two fingers basking in her juices while masturbating and thought of them as sponges. She would let them soak in her haven before she placed them into her mouth.
The toys replaced the real thing for only a few short years. After that, she faked orgasms to prevent damage to Virgil’s fragile ego. What allowed April to satisfy her needs without her husband’s knowledge was the fact that a climax for Virgil produced an identical result as an electrical switch being turned off. Soon after he exploded and rolled over, he would sleep hard, out like a light. Snoring was his cigarette and often April would masturbate to the rhythm of his sound.
“It isn’t like that,” Virgil responded. “I do care about your feelings and your needs. You haven’t been into it these days; I thought roughing it up a bit would bring you back to where you used to be.”
“I’d be more into it if you were the same,” April responded. “Something about you has changed.”
“I am the same,” Virgil responded defensively.
“No, you used to be caring and sensitive to what my body needs were, but now your caress feels like a chore. I sense pleasing me has become a job that you hate to do, but you toil your way throu
gh it.”
