Obsessionated

So back in the 20-teens, I began writing erotica for an e-zine called Oysters and Chocolate, edited by two women, Samantha Sade and Jordan LaRousse. I was a fledgling writer and they were two accomplished editors of a very successful e-publication. They gave me encouragement, a lot of helpful advice, and a chance. The following story which I shared with them had the bones, but it needed to be fleshed out a bit. They gave me some suggestions which I took to heart, and I crafted a much sleezier story out of my original plain one. I am so grateful to both of you, Samantha and Jordan.

For the seventh time that day she dialed his number. And she counted each ring.

One. She bit on her lower lip.

Two. Took in a deep breath.

Three. Pleaded out loud.

"Hello," he said.

She hung up. And heaved a sigh.

The two items she required were on the table next to the door. She yanked her sweatshirt off over her head and shed her Levis. A robe and sandals would suffice.

With a trembling hand she started the engine, backed out of her driveway, shifted into first, and accelerated. It would take exactly eleven minutes.

Automatically, she dimmed her high beams. The oncoming lights flickered through the trees, illuminating the weathered barn with its magnificent silo, then shone into her eyes before fading past her. Six point nine more miles.

What a waste of a day it had been. Nothing accomplished. Her house was a sty. Guests were due tomorrow. This always seemed to happen when time was so precious.

Like so often before, gnawing at her cranium, the urge that just wouldn't be quelled. That need of hers. To be entered. To be filled. When everything in her surroundings became a potential erection, be it mop stick or bottle neck.

It had begun with the bulbous handle of the butter knife she was soaping up. As she passed it in and out of her tightly clenched fist, titillating the anal region of her homunculus, she was forced to back away from the sink full of dishes and press her arse against the corner of the counter top, grinding into it, hands dripping sudsy water all over her jeans and onto the linoleum.

Then she spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon, arching against the brass cabinet pull, or straddling a glass doorknob, or rocking on an oak barstool with an agate made snug against her anus by stretching her bikini briefs high over her hips.

And all the while, she chastised herself for work that wasn't getting done.

She turned at the wrought iron signpost with the gold ball on top. His place was just one point eight miles down this rutty road.

A rusted Cougar and Chevy truck were parked in the drive. She grimaced. Both of them tonight. His roommate could be a little twisted.

"Guess I deserve it," she muttered.

She shut off the engine, reached onto the passenger seat for the night's offerings, and scooted to the back step.

Shifting from leg to leg, she waited for her knock to be answered. He opened the door and smiled as he received the little jar of Vicks and the pearl-handled hairbrush. A gestured sweep of his arm directed her past him and into the kitchen.

With his one good eye, his guy at the table tracked her passage through. She didn't stop until she reached the bedroom.

Kicking sandals off and letting her robe fall to the floor, she bent to remove her soggy underwear, then laid herself prone upon the pile of pillows in the middle of the double bed. She waited, her pelvis rocking in slow circles, her desire close to welling over.

Footsteps sounded behind her; she stole a look. Just like he appeared last week: tall, lanky, muscular. And between his legs, the most satisfying of her phalluses, already swelling and flushing in anticipation.

His mate followed him in. A little paunchier, but still identified with the man appendage.

She settled into the bedding and oozed.

The jar and hairbrush clunked on the nearby tabletop. The head of the bed lurched.

His guy crossed his legs under her face and leaned over her head forcing it down against his groin. His arms bear-hugged her chest with each palm pressing a breast. When she felt each nipple being pinched, securing her, she stiffened.

She buried her face deeper into his roommate's groin and screamed as the first blow scorched her bared ass. And on the second. She counted every one of them, silently, after each shriek.

"Harder! Harder!" his guy chanted and his prick augmented against her forehead, the tip of her nose, then her mouth.

He struck again. She gyrated. Twenty-one. Then once more. Twenty-two. She relaxed and spread herself wider. Next time, though, he would be told to deliver twenty-three.

The bed rocked again. His heat was near. He balmed her butt. Then her salvation, his fully infused cock, was liberally anointed while his guy released her nipples and compressed her head, forced her neck back and pushed his cock against her lips.

Sex toys and vibrators had been forbidden by her therapist, as her compulsions to use them were unrelenting. A soaped-up Venus razor handle; condom-covered window crank; chilly marble chess piece; knobby-edged parsnip--she had had to make do with these, before he was around. Not any more.

With a grunt he was finally inside, filling and stretching her, and she, bracing and clenching. His every plunge expunging her need, freeing her tethered mind--at least for one blessed moment.

He reached down to her clit and rubbed it hard against her pubic bone. With her gasps, he rammed into her more ferociously until, on the brink, she tensed. Then he pushed her over, and, in their freefall, he unloaded inside her as his guy shot his cum on her face.

The hairbrush, now, was raked through black velvety tangles to sobs of gratitude. His other palm drew circles on her back.

So softened that she could no longer grip it, his flaccidity was expelled. His roomie clumsily rubbed her shoulders. Then they left her to be alone.

To the sting in her buttocks and the mentholated afterglow inside her hole, she vowed, "Tomorrow, I'll get everything done."

And she slept with that conviction.

Blissfully.