barefoot 2

The grandfather clock chimed the last three bells of the hour: eleven o’clock, already, the clock face said. Eileen shut the door behind her as she looked around the cluttered entry hall, scrambling first to toss shoes into the closet, to pick up the last week’s mail and papers that had gathered on the table next to the door.

Rush rush, it was a distraction, this concern for neatness and order and first appearances and respectability, this date, this coffee, this expectation for something, what?, something. He was handsome, yes, this was true, thoughtful enough to look after her, attracted, it seemed, it was fucking obvious. Her cunt throbbed as she thought of his cock bulging beneath the running shorts, as she thought of this entry hall, his soothing hands now roughly holding her wrists up to the wall as he would growl into her ear. You like it like this, he would tell her, he would know. Eileen slipped her fingers beneath her panties, wet, of course, wetter. Dizziness overwhelmed her, she longed for this fuck-drunken want, a rare thing still, not rare to lust in general, to want sex, but precious to want so specifically, him, to imagine his hand now gliding over his thick cock perhaps, perhaps right now, perhaps his own thoughts of reaching round to unfasten her pants, to catch the string of her panties, to rip, push his fingers between her swollen lips. She pushed her fingers into her pussy, sighed, dashed up the stairs to lie down.

The bed was unmade, still, bad girl, the sheets turned back already. Eileen pushed off her shorts, and pulled her damp t-shirt over her head. Her bra was wet, and her nipples stuck to the fabric as she unfastened the back and peeled clothing off, exposing her skin to the cool room. Nipples hardened, and she touched them, thrilled still more with the flutter in her belly as she felt herself. Delicious to touch, to slow, to wait, to want, too much, she fell to the bed, back, eager for satisfaction, but more, the intensity of desire. A tease, she told herself, oh, just a little. Her panties fell from her hand to the ground, her legs fell apart, spread a little, a little wider, oh. Yes.

It was the clock downstairs that awakened Eileen, a half hour? a quarter? She wasn’t sure, rolled to see the alarm clock. One-thirty? Already? No, two-thirty! Two-thirty, slow clock, two-forty! She jumped, looked at her hair, still pulled from the pony tail, strands pulled loose, fix later. The red panties, bra, go ahead, if not now, then when? Pants. No, not those. Skirt. Yes, no. Sweater, shirt better, button to here, no, one more, on second thought, no, yes red shows through, too late now, too late, lipstick, leave now, go, he is waiting. Go now.

Tom stands on a corner, two fifty-eight. He stands, and watches, jeans, henley shirt. He stands and watches her wild hair loose now as she pulls the pony tail out and glances at her reflection in a car window. A mess, she is. A mess I’ll tell you, he will see her lack of order, her chaos, her respectability non-existent now, the lusty nap evident, isn’t it? she thinks, better to know now, she thinks, then doubts. Then he smiles.

2 thoughts on “barefoot 2

  1. diirrty says:

    Verrrrry hot. Hmmmm, I can think of a few people that I wish thought of me that way, in their bed, touching, teasing, wishing I was there with them. Oh yes.

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