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o The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories. o
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The Lover in the Closet (MF, voy, mast)
(c) 1997 by Third_Uncle (third_uncle@juno.com)
***
All Rights Reserved.
This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the
written permission of the author. This story may be freely
distributed or archived with this notice attached. The author may be
contacted through third_uncle@juno.com
Stop here if you are offended by erotic, graphic sexual stories and/or
situations, under 18, over 18 and repressed. These are intended for
entertainment only and any resemblance to nouns (person(s), places,
or things) living, dead, or otherwise is purely coincidental. Avoid
run-on sentences like the plague.
***
Here I am, cramped and boner-stiff. All guys get this way, even though
we know women don't like it. It's the eager passion, the sheer
affront of the male member red and stiff. A signpost that says PERFORM
or SERVICE, like those bursts of neon piercing the starless night. A
gas station in the distance and the needle lost between the last
quarter tank and E. E for empty, but the boner is full. A gas station
with no self-service, no credit cards, and no other choice.
My legs are pretzel-twist deformed; my heels denting my asscheeks. And
I think I have to piss. The closet air is stuffy and stale.
Centuries pass before the desk fan cranks around to infused the
closet with a cool jet of air. I conserve my breath, an astronaut with
seconds of air and minutes to live. It's the waiting that aches, the
anticipation of not-knowing. I wonder where she is?
For hours (four hours?) I am patient. I can't see my watch. I am
imprisoned between dresses, shades of green patterns, making me
invisible. And hot. I've never paid attention to fabric, but whatever
she wears is musky hot. It must be sweaty, damp from the office heat,
like her panties. I breathe a hungry gulp of C02 laden air. Is it the
lack of oxygen that makes me dizzy or is it the thought of her
panties, wet on my face, mouth, tongue? My cock jumps to attention.
It must be purple now. I won't touch it. I won't touch it long. Just
a touch, a rearrangement of my genitals, momentarily slakes my thirst.
Then, it builds.
I am certain the pressure of my heels on my ass will leave bruises.
Marks of passion, first-date hickeys, prizes won by force and luck at
the carnival. It bothers me that my ass cheeks are an erogenous zone.
It is forbidden there for men. A place of hands off and no touching.
The passion heat spreads from them to my inner thighs. I thought that
only happens to women. Maybe not. Heat increases in my pelvis and I
hold back the hip rock that will make me come and ruin the plan. And
the dresses.
If I could come twice, it would be worth it to find a receptacle to
fill. Not the shoes. Ugh. I couldn't bear to have her slip on the
shoes someday and find come there. She would consider it messy,
wasted, frivolous. How could I explain (if it ever came to that) about
how exactly does my dick smell like shoe leather? Just one more touch,
and I blank out.
---
I come to, still squatting. My knees ache and I try to twirl them in
small circles. Inside my head, an old Timex electric buzzes an alarm.
It resonates out through my ears. I'm afraid it will give me away, to
her, to him, until I realize the sound is coming into the closet.
Leaning forward, I hear each hair scrape the closet door. It must
sound like nails on siding as I try to peer out of the crack in the
door. The view of the bedroom appears to be in wide-view. I can almost
imagine a camera filming the bedroom, locked in a fish-eye view. I
wonder what is making the buzzing sound. Her shadow waltzes across the
carpet an instant before she glides into view.
"I'll just be a minute," she calls into the hall? (Living room?). I
wait, watching her cross the carpet to the bedside table. Her hand
grasps a vibrator that is laying on top of it. It looks a foot long,
ridiculous in her hand, like a foot-long hot dog in a bun for a
regular hot dog. She would hate that description. Her back is to me
now, and I missed her turning in her black mini-skirt. I hope she is
wearing no panties. Hmm. I hope she is wearing panties.
"Just a minute," she says, stressing the minute. It will be more
than a minute. The outline of her face is framed by the hallway light.
Her black hair that was pulled back, is now loose. Her blouse is
creme, not white, tonight. She must be wearing a black bra. The one
which frames her breasts and focuses attention on her cleavage and
nipples. I wish I could see her breasts, her erect nipples puckered
and dark aureola flushing a dark crimson red. Her hips are swishing,
swaying, rubbing together to inaudible music. Grind and sway and
buzz. The beebuzz of the vibrator humming unseen in front of her
skirt. Her cheeks are stuck to the black leather skirt. Almost poking
out and rocking on the swells; jiggling slightly in aftershocks.
I know she has forgotten me; forgotten I'm here. Ensconsed in the
closet and swinging in the voyeur tree. I am going to shake to pieces.
In one wet motion, the vibrator slides out of her pussy, clicks off
and is dropped into the drawer. She twirls on an unseen floor
spotlight, center stage beautiful. Her twirling eclipses some of the
lamp light and I still can't see if her panties are on or off. A long
finger shaped shadow tickles the high hem of the skirt and I miss a
flash of skin, if that was skin. She has rocketed through the door and
down the hallway. Gone.
---
I pick out sounds of glasses clinking and laughing from amongst the
house noises. There is no such thing as a quiet house. I hear the
ambient sounds of the water in the master bath, the shower massager
letting go a large dribble of water. It scatters in the tub, sounding
like burglars cutting through a window screen before coalescing into
the familiar sound. My bladder tries to let go. I try to push it, but
nothing comes out. I remember I'm in the closet and fight the flowing
feeling. I imagine my penis swelling like a cartoon fire hose and
almost bursting. I don't dare touch it. I wait and it subsides. Sort
of.
A bottle thunks in the empty kitchen trash can. I've cleaned it
(twice) since she'd left. Will he notice something? Maybe I've
forgotten to align the cookbooks, or close the kitchen drawers. I
remembered the toilet seats. Oh, now I wish I hadn't thought of it.
Women can hold their pee for a long time. Why can't guys? I wish I
could hear more of the conversation in the living room. If I had
thought to wire a mike into the stereo... Useless wishes. I need
something to concentrate on. Something non-sexual. Something like
counting dust bunnies under the bed.
"...No, come here...in here," she says. Is the waiting over? "I'm
down the hall. Straight down the hall." She enters the room, walking
backwards. She sweeps one hand over the room, opening the playground
I can't see him at the door. Hear his breathing, though, my
breathing, too. Her hand pans the room. The serpentine gold bracelet
shines like a gold beacon, flashing dazzling light shows on the wall.
He is still blocked by her sweeping hand. Backing from the center of
the room, her tight-framed buttocks are coming towards the closet, and
me.
The closet door closes a little as her cheeks press against the door.
The skirt rides up inches onto her ass, baring sweaty cheeks. Her
crack is aligned with the door crack. I can barely make out her
semicircle globes shining by the scant light. I stretch my tongue
out, daring it to touch the perfect slope of her ass. I just want skin
contact. I touch my wet tongue/dry mouth to one cheek and she giggles
softly. I now smell her wet crotch. Her hot pussy smell is
overpowering as it barrels into the closet like a magazine perfume
sample. Overload, but not nauseating. Too much stimulation. I
unconsciously withdraw my tongue. The weight of two people slam the
closet door with a loud thump. I drop off my heels to the floor.
Praying for the outside noise to cover the inside noise. I haven't
been able to feel anything below my dick for some time now. Breathe.
Breathe. No air. Breathe, Gasp. The door cracks again. Her hair
streams in with the cool breeze. I gulp the oasis offered, sounding
like an obscene caller.
"You OK in there?" she whispered. Before I can answer, she says
"Shhh." I hear the water running in the master bath. He's washing
his hands, I suppose. She wiggles a finger in the crack to widen it.
"Don't go away," she teases. Yeah. Right.
---
I see him now, coming into the room. His tie (he's wearing a tie?) is
loose and face slightly flushed. Well, he's not ugly. His eyes must
be brown or hazel. They stare to my right, toward her. She is out of
my vision. He smiles, showing teeth, not yellowed. I try to guess his
profession. Not a lawyer, CPA, or even showy. Good. I'd feel
threatened by a weekend golf gopher, dressed in a pink shirt and khaki
pants. A mall sans-a-belt mannequin, fashion dictated by Blair catalog
mailings. Her companion is not ugly, but almost plain. And I like
that. Not that I'm attracted. If her choice of lovers is neither
pretty nor ugly, it reflects on me. His hair is lighter than mine, a
dark brown, neat colour. I can't judge his height, while lying on the
floor. He seems tall. This is how bank tellers must see robbers. Tall
and taller. No wonder there is no consensus on description. He must be
smiling at her. He moves forward (to her?). He stares at the closet,
smiles. Does he see me? As his hand reaches out, I'm more afraid that
he will close the door. If he does, how can I breathe? Can I even open
the door. I hadn't even thought of that. But he grabs something from
the wall.
A mask dangles from his fingers. It is her black satin playmask. They
can't be more than a couple of inches from me now. I can see the
swirling whorls and ridges on his fingertips. The black elastic string
swings the mask. Her mask. She retrieves it and secures it with a
small snap of the black elastic band. Rushing to him, she touches her
fingertips to his chest. All the power in the world is pushing him
onto the bed. She moves forward, transformed by the mask into a
unknown, unleashed mysterious beauty.
"Undress me," she commands. He sits up, bulge in pants, now. "With
your tongue." He presses his face to her thigh. His breath must fog
her. She radiates heat, burning his face. He kisses up her thigh and
over her waist to her chest. Click of teeth on buttons. Her blouse
opens more, exposing creme flower petals to catch the sun. Cloth
flapping open and wet kisses on skin, on Lycra, on skin.
"Lick my nipples," she says. "Run your tongue over my aureola. Do
you like them?" He murmurs. "What do they look like? Tell me." She
commands. More kisses, licks, and murmurs. She breathes deep and turns
around. Moving toward the closet, she puts her hands on the solid
walls beside the doors. Her breasts cover my whole view. I am
transfixed, staring at her undulating in front of me. The black bra
absorbs all the light. A black hole of attention. I can't think of
anything else. See anything else. Breathe anything else. I see the
wet marks of his kisses on her skin. She reaches up to pinch her
nipples hard. Harder. Pinch and twist. I've never seen them this big.
"Unhook my bra," she says over her shoulder. The material strains on
her chest, bunching her breasts and accentuating her cleavage. His
hands grope around her taut waist, slide up her chest and replace her
hands on her nipples. More kissing sounds echo behind her. The bra
slackens and the ends separate. I see her hands on her hips. Hands on
her breasts. A multi-armed goddess of hands and fingers, moving,
touching, feeling, exploring. Twenty fingers rub all they can reach.
Probe all they can touch. I see hair above her shoulder. He devours
the crevice of her neck, hands now busy kneading her thighs, rubbing
ass. She moans. She thrusts her breast to the closet, her nipple next
to the crack. They're so close, I don't dare touch. Her skirt
bunches at her waist, exposing black panties. I try to alternate
concentrating between her pubic mound and breasts. I can't take it
all in. I just stare.
"Lean against me," she whispers. I try to move, legs balk. She moans
as she's pressed to the door, opening it wider with a knee. Only
slightly wider. Just enough to put my mouth on her breast and suck her
nipple. I see his legs behind her. He's pressing his erection against
her buttocks. Knees slightly bent, breathing heavy. I inch closer.
Almost forcing the door open. "Not yet," she whispers and
withdraws.
---
"Your nipple's wet," he says as she turns around. She chuckles and
forces her breast to her face. His eyes go wide with delight. He is
seated on the bed, now. A tent pole must be stuck in his pants,
pointing straight out. Cupid's arrow. I mentally note this to remind
her that she has this effect on men. I know I'll forget, but I'll
try to remember.
She slides her hand down his pants leg and over his erection. He
twitches and jumps a little when she briefly stops to pinch the head
through the pants. Her hand travels past the bulge and up the other
leg. She brings her hand to her chest, over his nipples, and down to
the fire in her crotch. She rubs herself through the panties and over
the pelvis. Then, she squats on his leg and rubs herself up and down
the length of his leg. A naked firefighter on a brassy pole. Up and
down. He whimpers and kisses her face. Her pussy squishes against
his leg, leaving wet marks .
Their mouths touch, lips roll across each other - wet rolling pin on
rolling pin. I can empathetically feel the buzz and tingle of her
lip-kissing. She purses her lips and brushes his. A hummingbird
pollination. Beak in the flower, reversed. But still buzzing. His
tongue responds by licking her lips and the edges of her mouth,
darting in and out. Returning the favour. She counters with her
tongue, rolling over his. Lips smashing lips. Tongues escaping and
retrieved. Hips rubbing leg, Hand on ass, rubbing a furrow. She moves
it to her breast. Hips faster. Fingers on breast, flicking nipple,
tracing areola. Pushing up, kneading, expanding, contracting. She
breaks mouth contact, exhaling. His legs is wet where she has covered
it in come. She moans. More. More. Feverish pitch. Thighs grip legs.
Lips on nipples, flicking, sucking, licking. Crying out, she slams
into his hip. Hips humming. Pelvis rocking. Panties soaking. More
coming. Release air. Breathe. Breathe. Hips slow. Collapse.
---
She is lying face-down over his legs. I can see her ass, still tightly
bound by her panties, quivering. Swelled, her labia show through the
crotch. They are puckered and slick, glistening, deep pink. They
remind me of her aureola, when dark. I want to see her clit, but it is
not visible. Her panties are so wet they are almost transparent. I am
awed that she has worn them out. Burning desire melting the crotch.
Disintegrating the best part. She's still for a long time, seconds.
He is lying back on the bed. His shoes and socks are off. The pants
came off at some point. They would have, she can't stand shoes and
socks with no pants. The bra is draped over his big top underwear. His
erection is lost inside, if it still exists.
"Mmmm," she comments, coming back to here and now. He slips out from
under her and straddles her back. His crotch on her ass. Hands
kneading any stress left in her body to the point of dissolving it.
She moans encouragement. He works over her head, caressing ears, and
hair. She encourages his movement by nonspecific sounds of
encouragement. The difference between "ooh" and "aaah" blended,
muted, non-existent. The hands knead out the kinks in her back. Now
for the kinks in her pussy.
She says something to him, he stands up, back to me, and drops his
boxers. The shirt is long gone, lost somewhere in the passion. His
back has freckles. I thought only very light skinned people have
freckles. It doesn't matter. His balls, like heavy Christmas
ornaments, hang tight below his butt. She is sitting, hands rubbing
his shaft, almost out of sight. I catch sight of fingers gripping his
balls and sliding around them. I feel excited and jealous. Longing
creeps in, like peering through windows of large mansions at Christmas
time. Her hands appear and caress his swollen balls. Rolling them
smoothly, like a juggler. Her hands stroke up over his ass, kneading
softly. They complete the circle and vanish over his hips. Reaching
over, he tries to touch her breasts, but sees they will get between
them. He doesn't know what to do with his hands as she puts her
tongue into the tip of his penis. This reverse penetration makes him
laugh in relief. Her tongue paints the head of the penis with
caressing strokes. A chamois on a Chippendale. She uses her pursed
lips to press-kiss down his shaft to his pubic hair. It is uncurled.
Glossy and straight, it frames his glistening shaft, a gleaming
Vermeer face. Light and life from within. It is bigger that I thought.
I wonder if she can put it in her mouth. She tickles his balls with
her tongue and back up the shaft. His leg muscles stiffen as she rings
the head of the shaft, celestial twirling, flicking. Stars wink in
and out of existence. It takes moments or an eternity before she
plunges down over his shaft. The head and circumference opening her
mouth and her mouth zooming down his shaft. Whomever invented the log
flume must have been thinking of this.
"I want you to do something," she says, stopping. I can imagine his
expression. Caught between the pleasure and the pain of the impending
orgasm. He says nothing though. "Go into the bedside drawer and get
out my vibrator, please".
He obliges and goes to the drawer. Reaching for it, I imagine him
opening the wrong drawer and seeing my glasses or our vacation
pictures in Lucite frames, but he opens the top drawer and removes the
vibrator. He turns and smiles at her. The view he must be seeing,
framed by her breasts and legs would be equal to mine, seeing her from
the opposite end view. He walks confidently to her, turning the
vibrator on without looking at the switch. He's done this before.
She leans back, eyes closed, as he brings the white plastic hummer to
her face. She moves her face to caress the vibrator. He strokes it
over her cheek, neck, lips, nose, forehead and around again. On one
pass she leans into the tip and engulfs it into her mouth. He holds it
almost motionless as she bobs the shaft, imitating the lip dance she
performed on him. His cock, viewed head-on, looks small. But the
sucking motions of her lips springs him into motion. It grows. He
engorges more and a small drop appears on the head of his penis.
Sensing it, she reaches up to smear the pre-cum onto the head of his
penis. He reaches down and squeezes behind the head, stopping the
orgasm. She stops sucking and directs his vibrator hand down her neck.
He leaves a vapor trail of buzzes over her nipples, around her
breasts, landing lightly on her aureolas. She pushes it down her
chest, over her stomach and hips and into her bush.
He diverts the vibrator at the last second, tickling her hip bones. It
tornadoes through her pubic hair. She moans with pleasure and
re-directs it to her mons. He whirls it to her lips. She moves it
back, adjusting the angle. It becomes a battle as he fights the
current and she increases the force. Her wetness glistens on the white
plastic. She presses. He presses and releases. The vibrator dives for
the river pouring from her pussy.
It sinks in, wet squishy. I realize that her she's wearing her
split-crotch panties, as the vibrator parts the seams and sinks almost
to the hilt.. She grinds against it and he rhythmically rams it into
her. As she climbs to orgasm, I see it sink all the way into her. Her
vagina draws it in, her labia working together to keep it from
escaping by closing over the end. Her clitoris is visible from the
hood. He leans over and brushes it with his breath. Her pitch
increases as she rises with her hips. He touches his lips to her clit
and she screams in pleasure. Her vagina contracts swiftly and expels
the vibrator. His hand presses back and the vibrator, but her lips are
slammed shut in orgasm. The vibrator slides and presses her clitoris
to his mouth. She comes again, come pouring out of her vagina,
tickling her ass and wetting the bed.
Pushing his head off, she motions for him to climb on top of her. She
guides his cock into her wet nest and presses it against her vaginal
opening. She rubs the head over her vagina, mons, clitoris, and
finally into her vagina. It opens to receive him as she grips her
ankles around his back. He puts his hands above her shoulders for
balance and furiously begins to trade kisses for kisses. Mouths slide.
Tongues twist. Her hips grind his crotch, his cock almost completely
filling her vagina. Her ass is wetly slapping his groin and his balls
are swinging into her ass and cheeks. The more she grips the harder he
pumps. Then, he slides out and over her clit, reverses and goes back
inside. At this thrust, his ass tightens, and balls swell. She cries
out over and over, higher octaves like singing scales of random, but
higher notes. He comes inside her, still pumping. A flood of semen
escapes her and rushes out onto her ass, his balls, their legs and the
bed. Minutes later, he lowers her slowly, still inside or against her
vagina. They exhale collectively like a simultaneous breath. She curls
up in front of him, hand between her legs and still protectively
pressing his wet cock to her throbbing cunt.
---
I've passed out. I think. I dream of being an astronaut, floating
into Mir. Inside, I am surrounded by women cosmonauts, clothed only in
fur. Small breasts, big breasts, pointed breasts, three breasts(!).
The rotation in and out of view is just quick enough to catch desire
and leave wanting. They are all different, human, perfect, naked. They
plunge their fingers into their pussies, draw them out, and shove them
back in. The fur coats are flapping in a non-existent breeze. Then
they are fingering each other. The deftness of fingers and wrists
twitching and twirling with the precision of clock movements. I reach
for them gravitating to their nakedness and repelled by the fur. I
can't touch them for the space gloves and I can't remove the gloves
to touch them. I drift back into space, still smelling leather.
Waking to the closeness of the mask of the Count of Monte Cristo, I am
unsure of my state of consciousness. I can't recall having arms or
legs to move, but my mouth is dry and covered. I crack open my mouth
and probe my tongue to touch the mask. Thoughts come faster than I can
process them. Leather taste. Thong? Shoelace? Shoe. Leather shoe,
pump, her shoe, her closet, her night, her lover, her orgasm, pussy,
wet pussy, legs, balls, breasts, orgasm, his orgasm, shirt, no shirt,
socks, crotchless panties, more come pouring out. I close my eyes
tightly to stop the images. It is too much. What did I miss?
She opens the closet door. "Sorry, we fell asleep," she says.
Squatting down, she helps me up. Her extended labia hang from her
short bush. The lips are beet red and still glistening. I reach out
and rub my fingers under, waiting for the fruit to drop. She squats on
my palm, kissing it with her pussy. I'm sticky, warm as she floods my
palm with her orgasm. We savour silence and wait. I see that her top
is safely wrapped in a terry cloth robe. I must look disappointed. She
smiles sweetly, rubs my shoulder.
"Let's get you up," she says and leads me into the room. I
hesitate. "Don't worry, he's gone," she says. There is silence in
an unsilent house. I make my way to the bathroom, close the door.
Standing in front of the toilet and to the bursting point, I try to
relax. My neck, head, body, and especially my cock are locked hard. I
practice breathing. It feels like I've never breathed before. The
sticky come on my palm bonds to my penis, making it worse. The door
opens behind me. I almost want to be alone. I don't want to be alone.
I need contact. Her hands on my back, neck. She kisses my cheek and
reaches around for my nipple. I tense as she reaches down to hold my
shaft. I look down, see a her hand on my penis. I don't know if this
is better or worse. But I don't want her to remove it. She points it
at the toilet or tries to. It is almost immovable. I feel her tongue
on my ear, licking it, almost tickling it, almost too intense. Her
hips cover my thigh and leg. I feel the wetness of her pussy, the
leftover climax dripping down my leg. The tension is broken and I
release.
---
Later in the bedroom, I am quiet while dressing. I am replaying last
night. She is incredible. The sight of her being aroused, sucked,
touched, and thoroughly fucked by another man has left me with two
distinct feelings. I feel so completely aroused. Every pore is
crackling with sexual energy. And at the same time I feel I should be
ashamed or disappointed. Ashamed that I haven't made her come like
that and disappointed that I couldn't/didn't join them. The
starkness of day and normal sensory input is a weak signal. My head
still hums. She enters the bedroom with a breakfast tray, wearing only
a garter belt, stockings, and lingerie. I open my mouth. She shuts it
with a gentle finger.
"I'm sorry about last night," she says. "We meant to have you join
us, but passed out. Shh, I love you, and only you." She smiles.
"Last night was almost perfect, but not without you."
"Okay," I think. There is nothing else to say. I understand that I
have given her one of her wishes out of love and unselfishness,
despite my conflicting desires. The negative feelings I have disappear
and I smile back. Reaching to hold her hand.
She takes my hand and places it on her breast. It is warm and beating
fast. I sense the tension about the state of our love for each other
and reply with a passionate, not overwhelming kiss. She waits a moment
and kisses back, harder. We slowly pile kisses like Christmas party
coats. After a few minutes, we regain our lips and breathe.
Almost as an afterthought, she feeds me a strawberry from the
breakfast tray. "Tonight, I'll return the favour." The strawberry
tastes like her pussy.