Distractable

December 30, 2017 4 Comments by willcrimson Cock Worship

You wouldn’t think, but in the dead of winter when a wood stove burns in a small house, one may wear as little as on a summer’s day. One my put on a shirt and nothing else for the little things needing done indoors. By midmorning though, a woman may begin to wonder if she takes more pleasure in seeing glimpses of her lover’s cock and balls just beneath the hem of his shirt, or knowing that her lover looks at her and begins to notice thick stubs of her nipples.
What does she do? She’s sitting on a the stool of her drafting table. She’s catching up on an ad campaign. Her lover walks to and fro. He’s cleaning. He’s the neat freak in their relationship. She chews her pencil when his back is turned to her, when he reaches to clean a window or dust books on a shelf.
The hem of his shirt lifts above his buttocks. They’re tight with the fitness of a runner. He shaves, like her, but the backs of thighs and calves are dark with hair. She digs her eye-tooth into the wood of the pencil. His thighs are thick and his calves are broad and muscular. Before he turns, she pretends she isn’t looking, but her nipples are already thick and perturb the fabric of her shirt with acceptance.
When like to be seen, not see. But she likes to look. Her pussy begins weep with looking, with the glimpses of foreskin swinging under the hem of the shirt, and the pendulous balls. They must be full of semen, she thinks to herself, for her pussy.
She inhales, she stretches, she returns to the draft on the drafting table.
But he looks. She knows he does, pretending she doesn’t, and stretches again, as if to show him nipples, breasts, a belly un-impregnated. She might not have put it that way but might not have denied it either.
Her work continued and so did his but the game changed from sneaking glances, to pretending they didn’t. She chewed on her third pencil by noon. She licked her lips when he passed by, pretending to read a book as he walked. His cock was thick and upright, the hem of his shirt draped over it. The foreskin was drawn back and the purple crown almost glistened. His balls were tight between his thighs—that soft, delicious space between his thighs, so soft and warm. Her mouth watered. She imagined his cock in her mouth. She imagined his balls in her mouth. Two eggs. So tender. Warm.
Her nipples, which had softened for a while, ached again.
The moisture in her pussy renewed itself at the sight and smell of his swollen cock. Neither lover spoke a word to the other. He made his rounds as if blissfully unaware of his cock—the hook, the jut, and girth of it—like a Satyr’s. Such an arrogant thing. Such an awful presumptuous thing. So thick. So long! As if. As if!—she thought again. To assume! And yet the stool and her thighs were slippery. The lips of her pussy were swollen, were opening, all for that presumptuous cock.
She breathed deeply but her breathing leaped over her skipping heartbeat. When he walked for one side of the house to other, yet again walking behind her, the tip of her thumb was between her teeth as though his cock were already there, as though her spine already curled with its presence.
But they, of course, said nothing to one another.
She could smell him. He was sweating. The odor moved in and out of the room with him. And when returned, he brought a chair with him. He put it in the middle of the room. She heard him. She bit her lip imagining the next act. Would she feel his fingers in her hair? Would he lead her efficiently and silently to the chair, bend her over the back of the chair, wait for her to hold on the chairlegs, then fuck her. Bent over like that, his cock would go deeply—his arrogant, presumptuous cock—and would lodge his orgasm irreversibly in her womb. She already parted her legs, subtly and expectantly.
But he didn’t reach for her hair.
He stood on the chair and unscrewed the globe from the light fixture. He held a light bulb in one hand while he unscrewed the other. The purple crown of his cock twitched at the height of her mouth. She saw him from the corner of her eye. She would like the underside.. She would lick his balls and ass. Then she would take his cock in his mouth while he stood on the chair, and she wouldn’t let him go until the powerful groan of his orgasm glazed her tongue and throat.
She bit her knuckle instead.
Some ten minutes later he returned to her room. There were two open doorways on opposite walls. Her room was like a hallway. This time he carried a clothespin. She didn’t dare find out if he carried more. She acted as though she were busily drafting. But when he stopped somewhere behind her, she bit halfway through the pencil in her mouth, tasting the rubber of the eraser. She wouldn’t move when he stepped behind her. She would pretend not to notice when he under her arm, the clothespin between his fingers. So slowly, so tortuously, he would pinch the clothespin, opening it, and lifting its wooden mouth to her nipple.
The touch would almost be sensuous at first, the mouth of the clothespin stretching her shirt over the curious nipple. And then he would slowly let go of the clothespin. Her fingers would dig into the paper of her draft, perhaps bending, folding, and crushing it in her fists until she shuddered and involuntarily moaned, involuntarily opened her thighs and arched her back with the pleasure of the pain. He would let her suck on the finger of his other hand until she trembled and mewled with very breath. until she couldn’t open her thighs any wider.
And then he would lift her from the stool, turn her, and lay her on her back on the drafting table. He would take her other nipple between his teeth, trapped by her shirt, and bite as though another clothespin pinched. She would squirm on the drafting table. She would open her thighs and draw up her knees until a single thrust lifted her spine, drove her teat into the mouth of the clothespin and her lover, tilting her head over the table’s edge for all the sharp thrusts to follow—for the moisture of his cry and hers.
But he didn’t come to her with a clothespin.
There was a laundry line strung from one corner of the room to the other. He hung freshly laundered towels and dishtowels. There were two dozen. Each time he lifted a towel to the line, he lifted the hem of his shirt above his belly button. His cock bobbed. And how she wanted to kiss his abdomen, to feel the heat of his cock at her throat and between her breasts. How she wanted to push him to his back, to spit herself on it, and press her palms against his abdomen, rising and falling.
When he had hung the last towel, she thumped the drafting table with the rubbery end of the chewed pencil.
No, she decided, the cock is right. A cock makes no assumptions. A cock knows a woman better than she knows herself—cunt, cocksucker, slut. Awful, squirmy, thoughts. Terrible. She shouldn’t think them. But she did. Before he returned, she would quietly push the stool under the drafting table. She would go to the middle of the floor, lower herself forward onto hands and knees. Then, cunt lifted, knees spread, lower her cheek to the floor. Yes, her cunt would say. Yes, I’m here for you.
Let him see her cunt, contrite, submissive. Let him lift the hem of her shirt, part the lips, slide until he feels the nook of her womb, then sink into her—opening, owning, possessing her. She would behave. She would roll the Persian rug in her grip, groan, her toes would straighten and stiffen, but her knees would widen, the small of her back arch compliantly, her cunt receive him. She would be good. She would look straight head. She would hold still as he filled her from behind. Good girl. And afterward she would lay her cheek on the rug and close her eyes, knees still parted, ass still lifted, pussy bubbling with come.
She lays her forehead on the drafting table.
Then she straightens. Her lover returns to the room and this time, she swears, she won’t look. He steps behind her. She feels his hands on her hips. She carefully sets the rule to paper and begins to trace its edge. He yanks her hips abruptly backwards. She inhales, surprised, line thwarted. Her pussy hangs over the stool’s edgel. He bends her forward, palm between her shoulder blades. She gazes at the sketch, the pencil lines, just inches from her nose. Her mouth opens. She groans, his cock opening her, rising into her, making her spine curl with the shape of it.
She won’t be distracted.
She sets the rule down again. She begins to draw. His thrusts would lift her off the stool if not for the hand on her shoulder. Sharp. Deep. She thinks she feels him in her uterus. She grunts. The pencil between her fingers snaps in two. Her black-rimmed glasses slip to the end of her nose. The drafting table scrapes the floor. She lets go of the pencil, holds onto the table’s ends, holds her breath, cries, holds her breath again, and cums. He yanks her upright, finger in her mouth, cock hard inside her, and fills her orgasm with his own.
When he lets her go she almost swoons.
When he withdraws, his semen flows out of her, dripping to the floor behind the stool. And when he walks away she glances at his cock, already drooping, a drop of both their orgasms dangling from its tip. She licks her lips and scoots forward. She shudders. She draws a new pencil from the mug of pencils precariously at the table’s.
Now, at last, they can both get something done.

William Crimson | December 30 2017

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