I can’t stop thinking about you.
I spent all afternoon writing to you, a letter you’ll never see. A letter that stands as evidence of transgression, maybe even a crime, but which I can’t bring myself to destroy. Not yet. So I may as well add to that pile of pages for now. Because I can’t stop fucking thinking about you.
When I finished that letter, I laid down the pen and touched myself. I was so wet. All through the writing, I ached to touch myself. Every so often I paused and pressed my thighs together, but when I finally reached between them, I came so fast. Too fast. There was no build, no effort. No you. I lied down on the bed. Wetness still seeped from my cunt. It’s not like a hard-on, Tom, that wetness. It’s not a condition wanting redress. It’s more like that dark, sucking sand at the shoreline after the wave withdraws. The pools of rainwater drunk by the sun into the next thundercloud. What I mean is, I’ve been fucked thoroughly, to my great satisfaction, and stayed wet for hours afterward.
But I’m not satisfied now, not after that quick, little orgasm, not even after the monstrous one I’d had watching you a few hours before. Those left me primed, in a state of ripe, archetypal slutiness. The Venerable Whore. You couldn’t possibly understand the power of this bottomless hunger, the gape in the flesh, the gnaw on the mind. But you wouldn’t have to understand to plunge into it. A boy like you, young and full of cum, might have half a chance of satisfying it.
But alone in this cabin, I have only myself. There’s a bar in town—I saw it when I drove to the store. I could slip on my dress and sandals, swipe on some lipstick. I don’t have to be alone if I don’t want to be.
I'd be on my way out, about to turn the key in the front door lock, when headlights sweep the gravel. I'd turn to see your Audi charge up the path and pivot into your driveway. Then you’re out of the car and on me. Smearing the lipstick. Tonguing my mouth. Pressing my back against the door.
Here in the cabin, on this expensive mattress, I lay on my side and grab the meat of my ass like I imagine you would. I let my hand be your hand, reaching under the dress to discover I haven’t put on any panties, then the thick press of hard-on aching against my pubic bone.
I push you back to make room for that breathless question that has worried me from the start: How old are you?
Eighteen. Your fingers tug at the strap of my dress. Your teeth find the skin of my shoulder. It wouldn’t matter then if I believed you.
I finger my breasts, like it’s you tugging my hard nipples through the thin fabric.
Did you break the record? My voice is cloudy, nearly strangled.
You look at me, surprise shading into understanding shading into pride. You didn’t know I’d listened to you and the other guys talking last night.
Yeah, I did. A flash of grin, then that mouth on mine, drinking from it. I let my hands slip under the hem of your t-shirt to feel the sinew of your back. You fumble for the doorknob behind me.
What are you doing here?
I had to have you. You push me inside and down onto the stairs, my dress slipping up to my waist. Fuck, you exhale at the sight of my bare crotch before lowering your mouth to it.
Two fingers stroking become your tongue on my pussy. My mind slides backward in the fantasy, dilates to omniscience. You arrive at the pool just minutes before the meet. Coach helpless with cartoonish anger—tomato face, lips a line about to snap. I see you crouched on the starting block, a hard, dark ball of energy. The starting gun shoots you into the pool. You instantly outpace the others, the powerful arcs of your arms and back pulling you through the water. But you’re going easy, pacing yourself until the final lap, that moment when your body senses the record in sight, just as you knew it would be. Your legs pummel the surface, the thrusts of your upper body sweep water from your path. It’s over in less than two minutes. Then you’re breathing hard, water dripping from your fine, heaving torso onto the pool deck, while a throng of people—Coach, the rest of the team, a cluster of girls from the stands—crushes toward you.
They’re more excited than you are. You’re happy but you expected this victory. What you can’t stop thinking about is a thing you never expected— a strange woman naked on the neighbor’s deck, touching herself for you. It makes you hard in the shower and then again during dinner with your parents at the club.
Later, it’s a house party where you’re the guest of honor. Applause, cheers, a mass lifting of red solo cups when you walk through the front door. Someone hands you a beer. The guys slap you on the back. The girls press their tits against you when they hug you hello. It’s clear that tonight any of them is yours for the taking, but you’ve had them all before. It’s me you can’t stop thinking about. You down your beer, say you need to hit the head, then slip out the back door. Before anyone realizes you’re gone, you’re already in your car, racing up the hill. To me.
My hand is dripping with the juice that would smear your face between my thighs, that I’d lick from your chin and lips and tongue when I pull you up and tug off your t-shirt. Those champion arms, cut pillars of muscle, would frame my head while the ridges of your abdomen and the wiry line of hair pressed against my soft belly.
Let me see you. Kneeling between my legs for a moment you let me look, your chest twitching hard as you undo your fly and wiggle free of the denim. You’re about to enter me when you stop suddenly and sit back on your heels. I gasp, waiting, watching you grip the base of your cock then slowly slide your fist up the length of it, just as you did on the deck before. You smile, and I spread the lips of my cunt, laying myself bare for you to study up close my swollen clit, the dripping hole.
Fuck me. That’s all the encouragement you need. You plunge inside me, my pussy swallowing the fingers I give it pretending they are you. But those fingers can’t fill me like I know your cock would. Alone in my cabin, the only thing I can fill is my mouth with your name.
Tom.
Tom.
Oh, god, Tom.
TomTomTomTomTomTomTom.
I say your name out loud. I say it to your dimpled thrusting ass, to your arrogant lips and pink tongue reaching out. I say it in time to the tempo of your thrusts, to the contortion of your face when your eyes squeeze shut, to the growing fullness of your cock swelling with semen.
Yes, Tom. Cum, baby. Cum in my pussy. And because this is a fantasy, you do.
© 2020 ROSEMARY CUMMINGS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.