I nod. “But can you save it until tomorrow? I’m zonked.”
She smiles like my tiredness isn’t from my own vindictiveness before telling me she will speak to me tomorrow.
I reply with a similar sentiment before disconnecting our chat, tossing my phone onto a side table, and then slouching back. My head is thumping, I’m thirsty as hell, and if my calculations are correct, I’m close to my ovulation date.
That part of my cycle always makes me a little crazy.
As I age, my body becomes increasingly fussier about what it is being deprived of. It knows what it wants and doesn’t hold back its desires for anyone. So you can picture how tightly coiled I am after being an inch from the finish line, then having it stripped back three miles.
I’m horny as fuck and desperate enough to do something about it.
After drifting my eyes to the open window of my room and noticing the healthy flicker of a raging fire dancing across it, I slacken my breaths before slowly gliding my hand under the waistband of the sleeping pants I tossed on after dinner.
Air whizzes from my nose when I roll my fingertip over my clit. It is still firm and buzzing with anticipation, even after replacing Mikhail’s cum dancing on my taste buds with peanut butter.
My clit aches as I lower my fingers to the opening of my pussy. I keep the excitement high by pressing the pad of my palmagainst the nervy bud and piercing two fingertips through the lines of my pussy.
I’m wet—unashamedly. And the situation worsens when my hand explores myself with feverish eagerness.
A gasp parts my lips when I push my fingers inside deep enough to breach past the opening of my vagina, and then I moan when I remember how Mikhail used to milk my G-spot.
He is the only man who has ever found it, and the remembrance brings a smile to my face for the first time in a long time.
As I recall lazy mornings curled up on a mattress on the office floor at the pub, I pump my fingers in and out of myself. Sunday mornings were my favorite. Mikhail and I had spent the prior two nights wrapped up in the hype of Lidny’s nightlife, but since our patrons reserved Sunday mornings for church and families, we had nothing to do but sleep in, fondle, kiss, and make love.
I learned all of Mikhail’s best traits on Sundays. How his touch was both torturous and delicious, that he loves giving head as much as he enjoys receiving it, and that one orgasm is never enough for him.
He rocketed me to the outer galaxies a minimum of three times every Sunday morning and even more on the days we skipped church.
While recalling dark, full brows, icy-blue eyes, and a face capable of bringing a nun to climax without self-stimulation, I finger fuck myself faster. My pumps are desperate but controlled. They move rhythmically to the wild beat of my heart as sounds of pleasure fill the room.
Moaning, I move my spare hand to my breast to fondle my nipple. I tweak the hardened bud and scrape it with my nails, mirroring the sensation of teeth grazing over it.
“Oh,” I moan when the quickest swipe of my tongue across my lips replaces some of the nutty goodness on my taste buds with the saltiness of Mikhail’s cum.
I thought I’d washed it all away.
When the tingling of an orgasm forms low in my stomach, I blink through a blurry haze. I’m not solely excited to have found my G-spot. I am also relishing the taste of Mikhail’s cum and naughtily plotting how to secure more.
He can pretend he hates me, but I know he doesn’t. In a jealous, neurotic way, the terms he added to our contract recite this without fault.
Mikhail only gets jealous and protective about the people he cares about.
If he’s not worried about you being stolen or hurt, you mean nothing to him.
His silence over the past ten years should slow my roll. It should have me pulling my hand out of my panties and scrubbing my fingers clean. But for some reason, it does the opposite.
I relax into the mattress before pushing my fingers in deeper, vainly trying to mimic the length of Mikhail’s cock when he fed it into my mouth.
Hard breaths soon fill the air as the finish line I am seeking appears on the horizon.
It has never been this easy in the past ten years. I’ve tried to self-pleasure multiple times, but it always ended with a heap of frustration and a ton of angry words.
I directed most of them at Mikhail because I blamed him for my faulty womanhood.
You can’t be bedded by a god and then expect to go back to faking it till you make it. But this time, I’m so close to the brink after only a handful of pumps that it’s scary.
After pressing my body deeper into the mattress, I move my thumb to my clit and augment the unladylike sweep of my thighs. As I finger fuck myself, I close my eyes and let my mind wander. I whimper when the last face I should want to see increases the tingles racing across my core.
