I admit to being a little pathetic about some things in life. After a week with almost no contact, one random text message sent me soaring.
“I’m dying to see you. I miss you.”
It’s the small things. In the past week, I had resigned myself (again) to this whole thing being one-sided. And in some ways, it still is. But getting a text message like that, followed up by casual flirting about sex, made the whole day much better. I couldn’t stop smiling.
I stopped fantasizing last week. Completely stopped. Me, the one who thrives on sexual fantasies; the one who can conjure them up at any time – driving down the road, folding laundry, hiding from my children. I was in a space where I decided that this wasn’t real, and I don’t want to fantasize about imaginary men. A few text messages and I’m back. I’m too easy on so many levels…
Flo Rida blares through the club, bass pumping. My hips and torso move, roll, twist. My arm drops down across my face, down my breasts, wrapping around my waist. I bite my lip, knowing I look like I’m fucking someone with these moves.
The deep bass pulses in my body, my pussy quivers in time with the beat.
An arm wraps about my waist, a hard cock presses against my ass. I turn my head. It’s you.
Without a word, we start moving. Hips locked, grinding and rolling together as one.
“They look like they’ve danced together before,” comments one observer.
“They have – it’s just usually horizontal…and naked,” my best friend helpfully supplies.
I turn in your arms and wrap my arms around your neck. Our legs are intertwined. I rub my wet pussy against your leg. You lean down and press your face into my chest. Moving up along my collarbone, you nip at my neck playfully. We never stop moving.
I turn again, and we bump and grind. You push me forward, so that I’m bent at a 90 degree angle. Remove the clothes, and we’d be fucking. I come back up, slowly, pushing back against you. Unbelievably, I can feel you growing harder.
Before the song ends, you lead me off the dance floor into a semi-private corner. I’m pressed against the wall, no where to go. You have that gleam in your eyes I know so well. You lean forward, our lips touch. The madness of the moment takes over. I’m clawing at your clothes, climbing up to get impossibly closer. Your hands bunch in my shirt, lifting it up. Our tongues duel, as always vying for dominance. I’m hungry. I don’t want you to win this time. I kiss you, feverishly, biting your lower lip, tracing your lips with my tongue – anything to taste you. My hands go to your waist, lower. I find your cock and gently squeeze. You moan in the back of your throat and press against me even harder.
Teeth on my neck, biting, mouth sucking. I arch my back, pushing my breasts out for your perusal. Your head dips down, pulling my shirt up…
“Mom, when’s dinner going to be ready??”