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My clit is throbbing, sending waves of delight up my spine. I push my fingers a little deeper, scared at what's going to happen. Just the slightest push.
FUCK! OH, FUCK!
My eyes are closed, but I see stars explode. It's like my brain has shut down completely. I don't even know what I'm doing at this point. My entire body is on fire. My soul is on fire. My spine is tingling and shuddering and every single nerve in my legs, my throat, my hands, my face, my breasts, and my thighs is tingling with electricity. I'm crackling. I'm lightning. I might as well be dead.
I don't know how, but I manage to keep breathing as wave after wave of electricity rushes through my skin. I'm shaking and trembling and moaning and I don't know what’s happening. All I know is that I might not come out of this river of sweet pleasure alive. I might be lost in it.
Eventually, I'm able to grasp thoughts. I'm breathing heavily. I'm panting. I'm gasping. I'm drenched in sweat.
I'm exhausted. And all because of Lance Anders… God, it might be painfully hard, but I need to control myself, to do what’s right. I can’t do this again, fantasize about him… Nothing good will ever come out of it. Even if he wasn’t my stepson, I’m 35 while he’s only 21.
Sighing, I huddle under the sheets, and only then do I realize I have a smile on my lips. Sure, this was wrong and I won’t be doing it again… But it felt good. I needed this. Oh, I needed this badly.
No other man has ever affected me like that. Ever.
I need to find out more about him.
But how?
But he’s already made my body shake too much for now. In another minute, I’m off into a dreamless sleep.
Jocelyn
I wake up and look at the clock. It’s already 7:30 am. I yawn and get up, wondering what fresh source of sexual frustration today is going to bring.
Don’t look at me like that. If you tell me you’re sexually frustrated too, hun, I’m just going to roll my eyes. I swear.
Sure, maybe your husband or boyfriend isn’t as active as he used to be. And if you’re single or widowed now, I truly am sorry.
But I’m not. I’m married to a man. A very powerful man who should be exuding confidence and control due to his position as mayor of the greatest city in the world. But he doesn’t touch me. Not once. Not ever.
My fingers can only do so much. A vibrator can only do so much. Do you remember that phrase we used to toss around when we were girls and used to be silly? I say we, as in collectively, this generation of women, by the way. What was that phrase – oh yeah. ‘Dildos are great, and vibrators are fun…but nothing can beat the almighty tongue’.
Remember that one? I think when I was in college my friend was the one who quoted that to me—Joyce Walker—and I used to live by it. Why use something battery operated or made of plastic when you could get guys to get you to paradise?
At least until I got married. That’s when Michael came into my life and completely erased any notion that my husband would be my sexual partner in life.
Maybe I could have walked that road by myself, but one of the first things Michael ever did after I moved in was to take my drawer of dildos, vibrators, and bullets, and throw them out.
“They have no place in this house, Jocelyn,” he told me harshly. “If the staff ever discover them or word gets out that my wife is using toys to pleasure herself, then the scandal could be disastrous.”
“Then why don’t you pleasure me?” I remember asking him, taking a step closer. I used the cute pouty face that had worked wonders for me in the past—everything from getting me out of having to watch football with a boyfriend, to an A+ from a professor in Comparative Literature in college.
“Because, quite frankly, I have more interesting things to do with my life,” Michael said as I stopped and realized my come hither look wasn’t working. “You’ll just have to go take a cold shower. I’m late for a meeting anyways.”
That’s been my life for the last six months. Sexual drought.
I’ve gotten very good at running and exercising—although it gets me horny at times looking at other people’s bodies. I’ve tried to take up sewing. I’ve done a lot more cookin
g. Hell, there are some afternoons I just self-medicate and drink a bottle of wine by myself, trying to forget.
Everything seems to make me hornier.
So, anyways, that’s what I mean when I say I wonder what frustration is going to happen to me today. Because as bad as it was before, it’s honestly only gotten worse.
Since he moved in.
Who? Come on, babe.
