Lunchtime. The park.
I have a sandwich, a book, an ice tea and a blanket. The heat curls around my hips and torso sluggishly, drawing me down onto the blanket into its stifling embrace like an overeager lover.
Stretching out onto the blanket I am suddenly reminded of another hot summer day, another park, another lover. So long ago…six, seven years? Before W, certainly, although it seems that W knew of him, that I spoke of him to W…
Maybe I only shared memories with W. Memories of a hand on my hip as we lay in the grass, a mouth, close to my ear, a voice whispering all the things he’d do to me if we were some place more private. A memory of drawing my body close to his, pressing my hips against his, of sliding my hand down between our bodies to feel his cock where it strains against his jeans. “Is this private enough?” I ask. “No one can see what I’m doing…” The sound of his breath leaving his body in a sighing moan as I unzip his fly and slide my hand inside the opening and grasp him firmly, pulling him toward me by his hard, hard cock as I press our bodies closer together, shielding what I’m doing from casual passers-by.
I sigh and close my mind to the memory, take a sip of my tea and settle back against the blanket, book in hand. The book is a spare from the trunk–I have forgotten my Kindle. It’s one of my copies of Orgasmic, an erotica anthology I was published in. Funny thing: I’ve never read all the stories. But I’m desperate. I can’t spend my lunchtime without reading.
I open it to the first story and my name jumps out at me-not as an author, but as a character in the story. Even better, it’s a story with an element of power exchange. It’s a neat, sexy little story about orgasm control, and I find myself daydreaming as I read it, roleplaying in my mind, wishing that W liked to play such games, remembering one time when we did–and he did. Hmmm.
I should read this to W on our drive to Dark Odyssey, I think.
I imagine him playing just such a game as we drive, making me bring myself to the brink of an orgasm and then denying me, making me stop, over and over, until all I can think about is my cunt, and getting fucked, and feeling his fingers inside me or pinching my clit or slapping it, of him using that wooden toy that he used this weekend, pushing it inside me, or other things, nastier things, spreading me open and filling me up, over and over…
I realize I have stopped reading and am simply staring off into space, the story in my head far hotter than anything I could read. My mouth is parted and I wriggle a bit on my blanket, wishing for little snippets of real play to make my day more interesting. As I do, I glance up over the top of my book–and see the occupant of the truck that is parked just behind my car in the shade staring at me.
I glance down. I have one knee raised and have been unconsciously rocking it back and forth, making my skirt–a perfectly professional, just-above-the-knees-length black skirt–fall back to my thighs. I am certain that, from his angle, he can see my black panties edged with white lace; perhaps even the dark V they make between my legs. If he has good vision he can also see the picture of the woman on the front cover of the book, head back and mouth open in orgasmic bliss, and perhaps make out the title.
I imagine what might happen if W texted. I’d reach over casually and text him a message:
Laying on a blanket in the park reading smut while some guy in a truck ogles my panties, I’d type. What should I do?
Give him a better look, he’d text back.
I’d look back down at my book, turning pink at the thought, but I’d do as I was told, pretending to be absorbed in my book again as I let my leg fall open wider, and continue to bounce it so that my skirt rides higher.
I do so now, pretending not to realize what I’m doing even as I feel my stomach clench in excitement, wondering if Mr. Trucker is still watching.
My phone would buzz again. Find a way to touch yourself, I would read.
As my fantasy takes hold in my mind, my breath catches in my throat. I sit up and cross my legs, seemingly to straighten my skirt–but as I pull my skirt down over my thighs I brush my fingers over my mound, and then, pretending to tuck my skirt down, I risk a more direct touch, pushing the cloth of the skirt against my cunt as I “tuck it” under my legs.
A soft pant escapes my lips before I can stop it, and I am terrified to look up and meet Mr. Trucker’s eyes, afraid that they will be boring into me, afraid that they will know what I am doing.
In my fantasy, my phone buzzes again. Find an excuse to talk to him, it says.
And that, thank goodness, is where fantasy and reality STOP.
Thank God W is a Luddite.
Lunchtime. The park.