Four writers for the price of one blog
A Daydream & Distraction for Redbud
An afternoon sun lights the countertop. A little slips over the edge and casts a bright streak across the white tile floor. The windows are open. The air is summery and dry. She waters her zinnia in the window. She wipes the stainless steel sink once more and cleans the spots from the faucet. The kitchen sparkles. She likes it that way.
She checks her iPhone for messages. 6 new messages, but not the one she’s looking for. She slips it into the front pocket of her jean mini-skirt. She’s listening to music. The wire to the earbuds runs up between her breasts, their dark aureole and nipple already hard and expectant under the tight white cotton. She absent-mindedly pushes the hem of her shirt over her taut belly and behind her, over the inward curve of her spine.
Her heart begins to race. She glances at the clock over the refrigerator.
She walks toward the entry hall. She stops. She returns to the immaculately cleaned table in the kitchen’s center. She bites her lip. She looks for something else to straighten. Her eyes drift back to the entry hall. She abruptly turns to the table and puts the iPhone in front of her. She IM’s her girlfriend.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘What are you doing.’
‘Break up with him.’
‘Yes you can.’
The familiar flutter rifles through her belly.
‘I just – maybe.’
‘You say that every time.’
‘It’s not easy – he’s –’
‘He’s a jerk. He treats you like a sex toy.’
‘And I know.’
‘You know? What do you know? That you should break up with him?’
Her heart was racing. She glanced at the clock again. She heard metal on metal – a key in the front door. She felt light headed. Blood rushed to her face. She bit her lip again. She glanced toward the entry hall. She crossed her leg, She uncrossed it. She lifted the iPhone. She put it back on the table. The front door opened.
She was wet. Her top was stretched between jutting tits. She breathed. She stood with her back to the entry hall. She pushed the iPhone toward the middle of the round table. She bent over it. She saw herself at the lower right, her face and breasts, and her friend’s surprise filling the rest of the screen. His heavy and deliberate footsteps vibrated in the hallway.
“What are you doing?” asked her friend. “Where are you?”
The footsteps stopped behind her. She didn’t turn. She knew better than to turn. She met the gaze of her girlfriend. The first slap, his palm on her ass, made her cry out.
“What’s going on?”
“He’s spanking me.”
Her voice is guttural, interrupted by the force of His palm.
“Spank – spanking me.”
“You – why?”
She groaned with the pain and opened her legs.
“Because I’m a slut.”
“I’m a slut. We’re all sluts. We all need to be fuck – ha! – fucked! Bent over and fucked.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s making me arch.”
“No, I mean –”
“He’s making me spread my legs,” she whined. “He’s making me show him my pussy.”
“I’m – Jesus. I don’t think this is –”
“I can’t help it. He’s making me show him my pussy. I have to, to make him stop. I’m showing him but he’s still spank – oh! – fuck! I’m his pussy! Oh fuck, I’m just his little pussy!”
“What’s he doing? What’s he doing to you now?”
“He’s yanking down my – He’s –”
She half cried, half screamed – a short, sharp cry. Always that first cry, that stop of the breath, that wide open mouth, that surprise though a woman’s been filled a hundred times before. She stares at the iPhone, into the eyes of the woman gazing back at her, knowing eyes, understanding and comprehending eyes.
“He filling it,” she exhales. “So good. So deep.” Her fingers curl.
“He’s fucking me.”
“Just look at me.”
“He’s fucking me from behind.”
“Is he going to come in you?”
“He’s making me come.”
“I can’t stop it.”
“Don’t. I said don’t!”
“I’m a pussy. I’m just a pussy – I’m fucking full of cock.”
She groaned and lifted her head as she came. The iPhone captured it all. The way she grunted, hiccuped and arched when she gripped His cock. The way she rose to her finger tips. The way her mouth opened and she sobbed. The way, impossibly, her nipples darkly stained the white cotton of her shirt when she came, stiff and tender with milk. When she was done. When she was limp. The fist in her hair turned her head back down to the iPhone.
“He’s coming in me.”
“It’s – It’s okay.”
“There’s so much. God. He’s filled me – dripping down my thighs,”
“Just let it happen.”
“He’s pulling up my panties. Oh, he’s fucked me. He’s fucked me in my little twat. He left all his juices inside me again.”
“Stay like that.” Her friend’s voice had changed, heavy and thick. “Let it soak in your twat..”
“It’s pooling inside me.”
She heard a zipper. She heard the scuff of his feet turning, the sound of leather on tile, then his footsteps leaving; the sound of them in the hall, the door opening and closing, the key and the bolt sliding through the strike plate.
“Stay like that.”
There was a long pause. A soft breeze rustled the sink window’s curtains. The smell of lilacs mixed with the smell of a man’s fluids left in a woman.
“Don’t take off your panties – not today. Are they soaked?”
“His cock left your tight little belly full?”
“You’re to IM me at the same time tomorrow.”
There was another long pause.
Will Crimson: May 31rst 2013