Anticipation - 3

Immediately after Brian left, I bravely determined to keep myself busy 
until his return. And for the space of about five minutes, which was
how long it took me to unpack my clothing and few belongings, that was
all well and good. But less than ten minutes after he had left, I found
myself sitting at the foot of the bed, staring blindly at the blank 
television screen before me, wondering what to do next. 
 
The sex-fog placed over my mind had hardly lifted through the mundane 
chore of transferring my stuff from bags to drawers, and so there was 
little I could think of that didn't somehow involve masturbating 
myself silly. I literally ached with pent-up fuck lust, and my pussy
was noticeably throbbing in protest. But as much as I craved release,
simply the thought of having my appetite satisfied by Brian's hot
cock made the thought of being satisfied by my fingers, well, 
unsatisfactory. I was determined to wait this one out, and I was sure 
the results would be rewarding.
 
However, that did not alleviate the present problem of how to occupy 
my time. Finally, I heaved a big sigh and dug the book I had been reading
on the plane out of my bag, flopped stomach-first down onto the bed, and
tried to interest myself in the plot.
 
For a while it seemed to be working. The book was a spy thriller, one 
that I had picked up at the airport before I had left, written by some
author I had never heard of. The characters were likeable, the story
line interesting, and with only a monumental effort, I was able to turn
my attention from my rampant pussy to the book.
 
Several pages later, however, the book blew my benign intentions out
of the water. There, on page 134, the hero character, Jack, was locked 
in a passionate embrace with the heroine, the sensuous Darlene. At that 
point I half hoped, and half hoped not, that Jack would get into 
Darlene's pants. One part of me instinctively knew that the scene would 
not help my agitated state any, and the other part of me whispered vile 
suggestions to Jack. "Fuck her, Jack. Pull her to the floor, shred her 
panties, and stick it to her!" I was almost embarrassed at my own 
lewdness, but I had long ago accepted the fact that the hornier I get, 
the dirtier my mind gets. And at that moment, I was so damned horny, a 
simple fade-to-black or sweet, tender lovemaking was just about as 
sexually satisfying as reading a children's story.
 
By page 135, Jack was lapping at Darlene's pussy, and poor Darlene was
biting the back of her hand to keep from moaning. By page 136, Darlene
was snarling and grabbing Jack by the ears, demanding he screw her 
thoroughly. Jack, being a man's man, started page 137 by poising his
prick at Darlene's steaming pussy. The author was apparently a tease,
however, and devoted the rest of 137 to a complete analysis of the
thoughts and feelings of both characters, complete with intrigue and
less-than-honorable intentions. It wasn't until page 138 that Jack 
actually FINALLY drove his cock into Darlene's hungry snatch. 
 
>From pages 138 to 140, Jack fucked Darlene on top, his lean form
covering hers as he ground his cock in and out of her, while she 
wrapped her legs around him and cried, "More! More!" From 140 to 143, 
Darlene rode him, skewered on his prick, deeply embedded in her, while 
he alternately stroked her ass, her tits, and her clitoris. Darlene 
cried out, "More, Jack, more!" From 143 to 145, Jack rammed into her 
from behind, jolting Darlene with each thrust, and manhandled her ass 
while she stuttered, "M-m-m-more! M-m-m-more!"  On the bottom of page
145, Jack pulled his cock out of her slippery cunt, flipped her around
and pinned her down, and drove mercilessly into her again as he had 
way back on page 138, letting her have it with both barrels. Finally,
on page 147, Jack's Herculean endurance gave out, and he ground his
teeth and grunted in a manly way as he spewed his hot cum into Darlene's
pussy.
 
The entire ordeal took a total of 13 steamy pages, during which Jack
brought Darlene to an astounding 6 orgasms. 
 
I, however, had had none, save the one earlier on the plane, and by
the end of the sex scene in the book, I found myself obliviously
thrusting my hips into the bed, with a section of the cover blanket
wadded up into a lump under my pussy. The book fell from my hands,
which flailed for a second before grabbing fistfuls of blanket, nearly
ripping it from the bed. I ground my cunt against the knob, pressing
my clitoris into it, rocking back and forth over the little mound of
bedding, until I felt my orgasm well up from my pelvis and just start
to sneak outwards. The pleasure was excruciating! Another second, just
one more second, and it would explode all through me...!
 
But just then I stopped, stock still, and hovered over the brink, my
entire body shaking, sweat popping out in beads on my forehead. The
intense ecstasy receded reluctantly, almost as if it were looking back
at me, shaking its head, knowing that it could have been the best one
ever if only I had held on a moment longer. The breath shuddered out
of me, and I collapsed in a heap. My hands gradually unclenched the
blanket. I rolled over and stared at the ceiling.
 
I loved doing that. One of the tricks I had learned over the last three
months was to bring myself, literally, to the very brink of orgasm, 
and then utterly stop. Getting there, and being there, was almost as
fun as the release itself, but it always left me writhing for more. 
Sometimes, pleasuring myself, I would stop myself three or four times, 
then let it wash over me in a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
This time, I had given myself some desperately-needed pleasure, but had
saved the best for later. Consequently, I felt both better and worse, 
and unbelievably hot. Brian wouldn't have a chance when he got back. 
Not that he wanted one. 
 
As I descended, inch by inch, from the pleasure hill of lust, I became
uncomfortably aware of my damp clothes, plastered to my skin with sweat.
I felt sticky, and I felt smelly, and naturally decided to take a shower.
After all, I would be squeaky clean for when Brian returned, it would
blow some time, and perhaps cool me down a little.
 
Right.
 
I stepped into the shower, with the water moderately hot, and for several
long moments, simply let the water douse me thoroughly, standing under
the full blast and literally inundating myself. Finally, I moved from
the spray, took up a bar of soap, and began to lather my body.
 
This was a mistake, for two reasons. First, my hands, gliding slickly
over the sensitive skin of my body, felt too damn good. I sighed as I
lathered the soap through the hair between my legs, and dragged a soapy
hand between my cunt lips. I shuddered as I soaped up my stomach and
breasts, my nails scraping through the slick layer of soap and tittilating
my nipples. I bit my lip as I lathered the cheeks of my ass, and groaned
as I pushed a slippery finger up my hole.
 
The second reason was the soap. It was a scented soap, and smelled richly
of sandalwood. I had brought this soap with me on purpose, because the
scent of sandalwood does certain THINGS to me. Sandalwood is my own 
personal sexual pheremone, it seems; it has an exaggerated and inexplicable
effect on my libido. It excites me. And as the rich, balsamic scent wafted
up from the bar in my hands and from the lather on my body, I became
heady with lust again.
 
So, with the combined stimulation of my self-stroking, and the wildly
exciting scent of sandalwood making my stomach flutter, it was no wonder
that images of an excruciatingly erotic nature began to assault my mind,
which was by then as fogged by lust as the shower was by steam.
 
My eyes closed, I leaned helplessly against the wall of the shower, and 
slowly, inexorably, my motions blurred to myself as if in some erotic 
dream sequence, I slid downward, lowering myself to a sitting position 
on the floor of the tub. My head floated back to rest against the wall, 
and, the steam surrounding me like a shroud, the stream of water battering 
my body, I surrendered myself to the insistent tug of fantasy...
 
Brian and I used to play a game in the shower, back in the early days
of our relationship, when we were just starting to explore each other
sexually. One time, as I lathered the soap in my hands, I instructed
him to close his eyes, and as I cleansed him, to focus all of his 
attention to how I touched him. My intention was to heighten and
intensify his perceptions, and become in tune with how I moved with him.
 
He quickly agreed, and closed his eyes. With soapy hands, I reached out
to very lightly touch his chest, then to spread my fingers across it. I
massaged the soap over his pectorals, letting my thumbs weave small 
circles around his tightening nipples, scraping them delicately with my
nails. I kept my hands moving at all times, and slowly I worked my way
down his stomach. I stopped as I reached the level of his hips, and ran
my hands up his sides, lathering under his arms as well. With excruciating
patience I slid my arms around him, working the soap over his back. As my
hands approached his spine, my body edged closer and closer.
 
As I worked on him, I tried to tune myself into him, imagining the 
sensations he must be feeling. I imagined now that he could feel the
warmth of me as I neared him, could anticipate my flesh touching his, 
wanting it, his senses straining to catch that first contact. Finally,
the pointed nipples of my breasts lightly touched him, then pressed more
firmly against him as I encircled him with my arms to wash his back. 
Lower, I could feel his cock, protruding from his pelvis, probing at
my navel. I pressed myself closer, and undulated slowly against him,
stroking my body against his shaft, the soap slickening the contact
between us. I wondered if he ached to put his arms around me, slide
his cock into me, and end this sensual journey here and now. But that
was against the rules, and we both knew it. 
 
I pulled away from him, and gently pushed him back into the spray of
the shower, my hands lightly stroking him as the water sloughed away
the lather on his body. Then I pulled him back out, and proceeded to
wash his shoulders, and down his arms. I worked the soap down his left
arm, until I reached his fingers, I smeared a copious amount of lather
in his hand, and then gently lifted it and placed it on my right breast.
Now I had added another element to our little game. Now, with eyes still
closed, he would explore me, learning me and my body by feel.
 
With my left hand, I began to smooth the soap over his right arm as I  
had his left. My right hand I rested on his upper arm as he tentatively
began to stroke my right breast. He slid his hand under it, cupped it,
and lifted it gently, as if guageing its weight. Then he moved his palm
across my hard and soapy nipple, tracing a pattern into the heel of his
hand. He took my nipple then between thumb and forefinger, and pinched
and twisted it gently.
 
Now I closed my eyes as he touched me, allowing myself to be intoxicated
by his inquisitive exploration. Not only his touch, but his manner, 
excited me. He was touching me as if he had never touched me before, 
perhaps never noticing that I felt just that way. It was almost innocent,
slightly boyish, and it turned me on unbelieveably.
 
I opened my eyes and had him lower his hand as I continued washing him.
I had finished his arms, and was again stroking his hips. I slathered
the soap across his lower belly, and slowly worked a lather into the 
thick hair surrounding his eager shaft, yet not touching his cock itself.
I continued down his legs, massaging the soap over them with firm
hands, until I was on my knees, rubbing soap between his toes, his
cock bobbing at face level.
 
I looked up to Brian's face, and saw that his eyes were still closed, 
his head tilted back slightly, and he was wearing a look of intense
concentration as I washed his feet carefully. I leaned forward, placed
my lips next to the head of his penis, and breathed a little hot air
on it. I wasn't sure, through the drone of the shower, whether I heard
him moan or not, but I WAS sure I saw his cock twitch, just a little
bit.
 
Finishing his feet, I stood and embraced Brian and slid my soapy hands
up to lather his neck, simultaneously pulling his head towards mine.
He quickly got the idea that the game was over, and he slipped his arms
around me and kissed me ardently, his lips slowly, sweetly caressing
mine. His tongue wandered lazily into my mouth, and the slow,
langorous kiss continued with much mutual exploration.  
 
I let one hand trail soapily down his chest, then lower, over his 
stomach. This time, I did not stop, but drifted lower to gently grasp
his throbbing shaft in my slick hand. I slowly stroked his cock, the
soap lubricating his hard length, and Brian showed me his appreciation
by kissing me ever more fervently. The pace still slow, but the tension
high, every movement seemed drawn out for maximum pleasure.
 
After several minutes of luxurious necking and stroking, I decided that
I could wait no longer. My pussy was running like a river, and ached
like a void that needed to be filled. I mumbled my need to Brian, and
without a word he cupped my buttocks and and helped me climb him, at
the same time pushing me up against the wall to ease the strain of 
holding me.
 
We paused only to trade the soap so that Brian could lather the wall 
behind me - even ceramic tile can give a burn with the kind of friction
we intended to produce - and then I was reaching down to guide the 
head of his cock into me. He pressed me back and down as he pushed up
into me, and his cock slammed in like a bolt. I wasn't prepared for
the impact, and as he hit rock bottom the air exploded out of me, as
if his penis was a plunger and all the air I had was contained in my
groin. A small part of the impact registered faintly as pain. The
rest burst through my body as pleasure so excruciating it took my 
breath away.
 
Brian must have realized that the initial plunge was a little much, 
because he began to thrust into me with much more restraint. Each time
he pushed his cock into me, it was with slow, deep strokes, using strength
instead of speed to ease in and out of me. For the first few minutes it
was blissful, tender, like a nostalgic memory of a summer rain, falling
lazily with big, fat droplets. But like a parched woman, I needed more,
and with my body I strained against Brian in a mute demand.
 
He responded like a god and created a storm for me out of the gentle
rain, increasing his tempo until he was thundering into me, his cock
pelting me as a hard sheet of rain would, pummelling me like a hail-
storm. And I was drenched in a deluge of passion, charged with all the 
energy of a lightning bolt as I clutched at him and gasped and took 
with pleasure all he could could give me. 
 
And somewhere in that incredible tempest of lust loomed a wave of 
monumental proportions which rushed towards me with frightening 
speed. Like a tsunami, my orgasm crashed over me with almost destructive
power, and I was lost, drowning, gasping for air as I lurched against
Brian, my hot, hot cunt spasming around his cock, my juices running
down my legs almost as copiously as the water.
 
At that moment, Brian reached his own crisis, and his face froze in
orgasmic throes as he pumped load after load of his seed into me, his
last efforts spent at driving into me as deeply as he could. He came
for what seemed like minutes before he finally threw his head back 
and exhaled explosively, pushing into me one last time.
 
I untangled my trembling legs from his waist and gingerly attempted to
stand, Brian's arms around me for support, and we stood for several
moments simply holding each other, stroking each other comfortingly, 
recomposing each other. Finally, as if to reprimand us for dawdling
so long, the shower turned cold...
 
...just as it did now. I raised my head from my arms and blinked 
startedly, even as I started to shiver. As usual, I had been carried
away by my fantasy, and had lost all track of time and space. I
hurriedly turned off the frigid water and stepped out of the shower.
I wrapped a huge towel around me and proceeded to dry myself off. 
 
After a few minutes I realized I was still shivering, but this time not 
with the cold. My fantasy in the shower had worked my body up into
such a passionate frenzy that it could no longer easily contain my
pent-up need. Unlike the dream on the plane, I had not descended into
an alternate realm of such profound realism that I could experience
orgasms on both levels. My orgasm this time was fantasized, not realized,
and it was taking its toll.
 
I shakily returned to the bedroom and lay down on the bed, still in my
towel. Before long, however, the damp towel lost its ability to warm me, 
so I tossed it aside in favor of crawling under the warm, heavy blanket.
I snuggled comfortably down in the covers - well, as comfortably as could 
have been expected under the circumstances - and for many minutes just
stared at the ceiling. I had no idea without looking at a clock how much
time had passed since Brian had left the motel room, and similarly had
no idea how much time would pass before he would return. And as my body
warmed and my pulse slowed, I began to feel increasingly sleepy. 
 
My last thought as my eyes drifted shut was that I had to stay awake.
I couldn't allow myself to fall asleep before Brian returned. I just 
had...to stay...
 
End of Part III - Anticipation
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