by T. L. Sherwood
The sweat hasn’t dried, hasn’t rolled down my back, hasn’t rimmed my mouth with salty guilt before Pete’s fingers are searching my flesh anew. They are grazing the opening, rubbing my clit, soon making me arch back in another orgasm. My orgasm. It’s just for me and I relish it wondering if I have been multiorgasmic for years and never knew it because I’d landed with good guys who were just the wrong men and then this thought is banished because he is picking me up and carrying me into my bedroom, the one I haven’t let him near, but he’s in here now, acting like he owns it, owns me, is straddling my naked body that is aching for more and I wonder if this is true, if this is love, if this is lust and he asks the question, the one I’ve longed to hear and I can’t believe he’s asking and I’m agreeing and I nod and point at the dresser and he kisses me deeply before he leaves. When he returns, he holds a scarf and I don’t mind that it’s the expensive one.
He grasps my wrists, ties them together and then to the bedrail and I can’t remember a time when I’ve ever been wetter or hotter and maybe it’s just the summer weather, the record breaking heat, but no, it’s him, it’s us, the two of us who are breaking the thou shalt not fraternize rule and if we’re found out, he could lose his job and I could lose my position but oh God he is unbuttoning his shirt, yanking off his tee-shirt and the muscles I’ve only dreamed about ripple and my hips tilt up and he smiles, bends down, kisses my navel and shakes his head.
The waiting is so hard and it takes so long for him to take off his shoes and socks and I remember I’m so much older than him and my body is not in the best shape and why would he want to be with me but he has his pants off and his dick is straining against his boxers and though this will be our second time, it’s even more amazing than the first and he teases me, rubs against me, terrorizes me into making me want him more, desire him, develop a crazy craving for his touch and I can’t grab, can’t pull him close, can’t think straight, can’t believe this is wrong, can’t believe the trouble this will cause, can almost say this but then he kisses me again. He unbinds my wrists, lifts me up, flips me on top of him so I can ride him so I ride and ride and rub, and delve, and pant, and oh God it is so thick and so hard and he’s so ripped and I cum and cum and it’s so good my left leg shudders in a tremored stutter like a dog’s does when you find its sweet spot.
T. L. Sherwood is the Assistant Editor of r.kv.r.y Quarterly Literary Journal. At Literary Orphans, and serve as a fiction reader, book reviewer, and interviewer. Among other places, T.L.'s work has appeared in New World Writing, Rosebud, Thema, The Good Men Project, and The Chrysalis Reader. He is the 2015 winner of the Gover Prize and was a finalist for Queen’s Ferry 2016 Best Small Fictions. Online, T.L. participated in Zoetrope's Virtual Studio and write a blog called “Creekside Reflections” here https://tlsherwood.wordpress.com/