Chapter 58
Roni
“Shit,” I blurt out, realizing I've slept much longer than planned. It's already late morning. Phoenix must have left hours ago. Wait, did we? I'm uncertain if I had a good dream, or perhaps something better.
It was an early night for me. All the emotions of fighting the darkness followed by absolutely coming apart on camera had me near comatose.
I was out cold well before he got home. But I swear he woke me up, and.
.. I sigh. Fields of goosebumps form on the back of my arms. I reach a hand to my face and feel it.
Dream or otherwise. The sticky residue remaining confirms it.
Wanting to start the day off clean, I take a glorious hot shower.
Using my soapy hands, I scrub what I can only assume is his frosted seed from my flesh.
I love when he comes for me. When he comes on me.
When he takes what is his. And this little taste is just enough to make me want it. To want him.
He has to know this leaves me burning with tension. But as much as I want to give myself a release, I've just gotten clean. My body is vibrating with the feeling I want to be touched. To be cherished. To be ravaged. I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
My long, dark hair always looks pitch black when it's wet. But it compliments my eyes. Makes them shine. Makes them stand out. I give myself a once-over and pucker my lips, blowing a naughty kiss at myself in the mirror.
After toweling off, I blow dry my long flowing locks.
I rub a bit of his lotion, a mixed aroma of sweet tobacco and bay rum, into my skin.
The gentle friction of my fingertips on my arms sends waves down my stomach into my hips while a shiver juts up my spine.
It's a familiar sensation, one he usually gives me.
I can already tell I'll thirst for him to come home all day.
I put on his work shirt from yesterday, still crumpled on the floor, wearing it like a light spring coat, unbuttoned and dangling over my luxurious breasts and down to my knees. I slide a scant pair of burgundy panties up my sleek legs, covering my smooth pink pussy, lips and all.
I saunter into the kitchen, feeling lively and bold. My feet dance to seductive music playing in my head as I strut toward the jar of coffee beans.
My nostrils take in an overwhelming whiff, a mixture of his savory day-old sweat and aromatic cologne.
A flash of him, fisting himself, releasing at just the mere sight of me sends a rush of heat to my core.
I start to feel warmth across my skin. And entirely unaware, I begin to caress my right breast through his shirt.
“Oh my god, get a hold of yourself, Veronica,” I say aloud to nobody, snapping back to reality, and setting the electric kettle to boil.
Moments later, I have my favorite roast, freshly ground with four scoops on the bottom of the French press, awaiting the gurgling hot water.
When ten more minutes pass, I pour a piping hot mug full and bask in the glow of the now afternoon light bouncing through our windows.
I harness the hot ceramic cup with both hands, feeling the fiery energy resonate in my muscles, matching the melting at my center.
Again, waves of images overcome me. My lover manhandling his pristine body, watching me ravenously while I slept, gently touching me with his hand, stroking his hard cock.
I shiver at the snapshots of my dream. Or was it?
Fuck, I don’t know. The bitch of it is, the more I think about it, the hotter I get.
My tits cringe with the yearning to be touched and I feel a dampness forming in my briefly clean panties.
Taking a big swig of my coffee, I set the mug on the island countertop, the epicenter of our lavish kitchen.
Starting by my waist, I run my hands up my invigorated body to my nearly beating tits.
I squeeze and massage them both through the unbuttoned shirt, biting my lip in a brief second of bliss.
The texture of the fabric excites my nipples when I apply the slightest pressure.
As the pining in my breaths overwhelmingly migrate south, I slowly run my palms down my chest and abdomen to the ends of my lover’s shirt, which I am now pressing into the tenderness of my inner thighs.
My imagination halts for a moment, recognizing it’s unfathomably quiet. It’s unusual I haven’t seen Vic by now, though I’m sure he’s here somewhere, watching, which only intensifies my state.
The concern is fleeting, at best, and before long, I realize these thoughts will consume my already half-gone day if I don’t do something about them. I recall a suggestion Mercy gave me once. Something, I’ve never considered, but one which turned me on in its uniqueness.
I saunter to the freezer, retrieve a handful of ice cubes, and toss them into a small bowl, adding a spritz of water over the top to wash away any chance of getting burned.
I come around the island to the kitchen table and pull one of the chairs out.
I’ll need to sit for what’s next. I set the frosty bowl on the table, a mere couple feet away, sticking my right hand’s index and middle fingers into the wet ice.
While I wait for them to chill, I part my legs to each side of the chair and scoot my supple cheeks forward on the seat, forcing my panty-covered opening to hang over its edge.
It’s then I get the devilish idea. I’m going to film myself and send it to him.
I want Phoenix to feel what I feel. I want him thirsting for me.
I set my cell on its side at the table’s border, using the kickstand of my custom case to get my body ideally in frame.
Then, withdrawing my semi-freezing hand, I take my frigid digits and, starting at the inside of my right knee, I softly trace a cold line up my inner thigh, right to the crease between my leg and the lining of my panties. The sensation is different but pleasant.
What if I go directly to the source?
Scooping an ice cube from the bowl, I hold it between the tips of my fingers and retrace the same line of my leg.
The touch of the frozen chunk sends bolts of lightning into my pelvis.
Taking it a step further, I slide the melting hunk further into the junction where leg meets torso.
I retract a tad toward my waist and pause while it sits, melting over the little birthmark I have.
Another clip of him permeates my mind. An old memory. One of our first encounters, where he's holding me down at the foot of my bed, his coarse tongue lapping at my rigid pearl.
Before I realize it, I'm rubbing the last speck of ice up and down the strip of my panties, covering my delicious pink lips. The feel of the cold and damp trickling of melting ice is invigorating. All I want is more.
I grab the fabric of his shirt between my hanging tits and tug it over my shoulders. Having left the buttons undone allows me to make quick work, freeing my breasts and resting the cloth of his shirt in the crooks of my elbows and around my lower back.
Snatching another lump of ice, this time with my left, I touch it to the space between my collarbones, above my bosom.
Drops of cold water melt and dribble down my chest, passing between my formidable tits, around my cute navel, and onto the hem of my waistband.
I drag it down slowly to my left breast, taking care to wind it in circles first around my areola, then zeroing into my protruding nipple.
It lunges out and stands erect, furthering my arousal.
I do the same for its twin until the novelty grates my patience.
I clutch my aching tits with each hand and caress, squeeze, and knead them. I press them firmly into myself and pinch my nipples. I can't take it. I need to go further.
My hands instinctively reach for the fringe of my panties, underneath which I slip two fingers on each side.
I drag them across my steaming lips and let them slide over my slick entrance before I tow them up and across my prominent hood and hardening clit.
Once I've taken the quick tour beneath the fabric, I pull up on the smooth textile, using the pressure of the strained threads to choke my clit.
Another trick I know will make Phoenix drool.
The tension is harsh and fucking hot. It spurs me to bite my bottom lip, harder this time, another bit to make him simmer.
I can't help but picture him on the floor between my legs, hand inside my panties, rubbing my wetness, swirling the ridges of his work-worn fingers around my opening. My hands mimic their path.
I feel him draw my underwear from my body, letting them fall to the floor, before returning his focus to my beckoning oyster.
Like a clothespin cinching curtains on a hanging line, I brace my tender lips in the arc between my middle and forefingers and pinch them over my clit.
A rush of fire shoots across my body and I massage the area for a bit, closing my eyes to enjoy the waves of heat.
A tick or two pass and I use those same digits to splay my lips apart, tensing the skin and exposing the blushing underbelly of my bud.
My now saturated opening winks, flashing the pulpy flesh of my interior wall at the camera. I clamp two fingers of my other hand and gently lug them around my nearly dripping hole, then over my glowing bared skin, making sure to apply increased pressure when I traverse my stiff clit.
I envision him reaching up for my breast, pawing at it with his free hand, while the other rubs me round and round, in slow, determined circles.
He avoids overstimulating my swollen lips.
Electing instead to let the jolts of ecstasy hover across my body.
If I continue pushing my boundaries sitting here, I'll crash to the floor.
I manage to climb to my feet, and upon doing so, I let his shirt fall to the floor, where I kick it under the table.
I turn my body away from the camera and lift my leg, setting the ball of my left foot where my now naked peach once sat.
The contours of my calf and thigh flex, allowing my plush ass to firm as much as it can in view.
I bend myself forward, forcing my tight pussy to peek back to the camera.
I latch onto the back of the chair for support and use my free hand to chafe the flesh around my barely visible entrance.
The tension in my body rises at a near glacial pace while I take my time to enjoy every ripple, every twinge, every skosh of pressure.
My inner walls begin to constrict with excitement, and I let two fingers breach my tender opening.
The frenzy of the inserted portions of my fingers scuffing my upper barriers is exhilarating.
I give in to the sensation when my second knuckles rest at my notch, and a faint buckle bends in my other knee.
I dig harder inside my agonizing pussy, forcing my hips and abs to shudder, the resulting force bouncing my buoyant cheeks.
“Fuck,” I whisper. I wish he were home. He'd prop himself up behind me and do that wild thing I love. I can never see it, and I'm usually face down on our bed or couch, but he could lay me across our table, and I know how it feels.
From the prone position, I bring one knee out to my side and toward my shoulder, giving him the access I so anxiously want him to exploit. He would spit in his hand first.
In his absence, I thrust my lust-covered fingers into my mouth, sucking the lagging taste of myself off, getting them good and wet.
He'd reach his hand under me and tenderly press his thumbs into my starving hole, reaching just far enough to abrade my front wall and make me wriggle under his touch.
I can't contort my arms to copy his technique, but the girth of my ring and middle fingers coupled are close enough to match. I hook them inside my flickering pussy and scoop them along my insides. Hmm. I quiver, then proceed.
But this wouldn't be enough for him. He wouldn't stop with a basic finger blast. Never.
This is when, while fucking me with his manly thumb, he'd push his two adjacent fingers up my raw flesh and over my throbbing clit.
His hands form a clamp, and with every thrust of his arm, he pulsates my taut clit in towards his plunging tip.
I extend my free hand to my blooming bud, and while continuing to penetrate my dripping pussy, I rub coordinated circles around my eager being.
“Jesus,” I stumble over unintelligible sounds.
Fucking me with a magical hand is all I can think beyond wanting to come for him.
He has done this to me. He always does this to me.
My volcano is rumbling and beckons to blow.
My sides, stomach, and tits are tense and urging for the release to shake them uncontrollably.
I continue rubbing and thrusting until finally, I can't hold it anymore.
With my digits continuing to push me ever closer, I snatch a handful of my dark mane and then drop it to grip one of my tits instead.
I squeeze hard as I keep fucking myself.
I'm going to come. Fuck. Oh my god. My whole body quakes as I keep moaning. Mmm. Fuck. Yes.
Moments later, flopped across the kitchen chair, I type out a message and send him his present.
Roni: After I found my gift, here's a little one for you.