There was no sensation of initial discomfort as he gripped my hips and penetrated me fully. On tiptoes, I adjusted for the perfect angle as Alex started rhythmic movements, sliding in and out. With every thrust, my ample breasts swayed beneath me.
“Oh… my… god…”
My words rode on gusts of hot breath.
“Faster… harder… more…”
Alex intensified his pace, hammering into me. My tits swayed, and I moaned, calling his name as the orgasm hit.
“I’m... cumming… oh… my… god…”
Squeezing my eyes tightly, I sucked in a long breath as I came. Alex's cock plunged in and out until I begged him to stop. His touch seemed to drift away like a warm passing wind.
Opening my eyes, I peered into the fogged-up mirror, the tub on the verge of overflowing. Blinking back to reality, I gazed at myself.
My left hand clutched my flushed breast, red from firm rubbing. The nipple stood erect, a dark crimson thimble amid a sea of white.
Standing with bent knees, the fingers of my right hand were buried inside my core. Drenched to the wrist from the self-induced orgasm, I let my fingers slide out and braced my palms on the counter.
Taking in a long, deep breath, I exhaled slowly.
It all seemed so real that I turned, half-expecting to find Alex there.
Sadly, I was alone.
Turning off the water, I eased into the steaming tub. Closing my eyes, I smiled as the hot water engulfed me. Picking up the bar of soap, I rubbed it between my legs as the fantasy replayed in my mind.
This time, I was a spectator, not a participant.
You know how they say that if you lose the use of one of your senses, it makes the other senses heighten?
Like, if you lose your sense of sight, your senses of smell and hearing and taste and touch grow stronger?
The same was true when you were a virgin.
When you’d never had a real man inside you, your imagination intensified until it became as vivid as the real thing.
Thank God.
Sigh…
Alex
Monday morning, 7:45 AM.
I marked the time because Jeffrey was set to pick me up for our Tucson trip with the Silverman team around eight-thirty. A bag, packed over the weekend by my assistant, sat ready by the front door.
Always be prepared – or have an assistant prepare for you.
With time to spare, I brewed a cup of coffee using the supposed twenty-thousand-dollar machine Jeffrey had convinced me to buy during a business trip to Italy a few years back.
It was supposedly the best coffee brewing system on the planet. The coffee beans the system also supposedly brewed the best cup of coffee on the planet. I think the beans were imported from the deepest jungles of Columbia and had been shit through a tiger’s ass or some such nonsense.
I didn’t get the big deal. The coffee it brewed was mediocre at best. It had the consistency and the smell of burnt ink. It certainly was not a twenty-thousand-dollar cup of coffee. The hundred dollar Keurig in my office made better coffee.
Jeffrey said I had the palette of a caveman.
What-the-fuck-ever, dude.
I knew a subpar cup of coffee when I tasted it.
I kept forgetting to buy a Starbucks franchise for the lobby downstairs (I own this building and live in the penthouse), even though I planned to make the deal with Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz.
I picked up my iPhone and spoke into it.
“Siri, remind me to put a Starbucks in the lobby downstairs.”
Siri acknowledged my genius, and I placed the phone aside.
After setting the steaming coffee mug on the kitchen table, I powered up my laptop. Logging into Facebook, I lightly tapped the keys, purposefully ignoring the 1,835 notifications and 2,018 messages flashing at the screen's top.
TLennyfully, I despised Facebook, reserving its use for digging up information about individuals relevant to potential business dealings or those who intrigued me, such as Carla Jameson.
It consistently amazed me what people shared on Facebook without considering the potential consequences. Posts ranged from shots of someone getting excessively drunk at a bachelor party to explicit encounters with a naked hooker in the bathroom. There were even pictures of individuals receiving a lap dance from said hooker, and the pièce de résistance – an image involving a white powder (resembling cocaine) being snorted off the hooker's breast. The grand finale? A picture of someone passed out drunk in a hotel room, naked, and covered in magic marker.