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Saturday Night
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Archive-name: sat-night
He picked her up from work. Working Fridays and Saturdays left
little time for socialising, so they grabbed whatever
opportunities came their way. Some of her colleagues, waiting
for the company bus trip to Bendigo, stared openly. She wasn't
the type to have a boyfriend, or so they thought. A month ago
she'd have agreed with them. But he brought out a side of her
that she'd long denied...
He drove her home -- polite small talk with the mother while she
changed, then off, out and away. They had dinner in a small,
secluded Italian restaurant. She was unlike other women he had
dated. She did not take dainty morsels of food, complaining
about her weight. She ate hungrily, with gusto. She did
everything with passion.
They went to the movie, but neither could say that they'd seen
it. "Otherwise occupied" was her standard expression. She let
her hands roam where they wanted, and they kissed, but both
restrained. She whispered "I got some sexy underwear today --
I'll model them for you later," as they left the theatre.
Arrived home again. The mother had gone to bed; they were alone.
She turned on the television; he lay down on the couch. She went
up to him; in the feeble flickering light of the television he
could see her desire. Even if he could not, he would soon have
found out, as she walked slowly to the couch and sat near him.
He knew how to push her buttons -- soft, breathless kisses all
over her face, around her mouth, making her hungrier and weaker,
hungrier and more aggressive, until she took his face in her
hands and made him satisfy her. Hot lips, burning from within,
his tongue mimicking the movements he wished to make. She gasped
as he caressed her breast, its hard centre betraying the
intensity of her desire. Her own hands shifted from his face,
trailing down his chest, his stomach, down, down, down to the
bulge which she knew caused him pain in those tight jeans. On
the lounge, in the living room, where her mother could come in at
any time, the thrill of being caught added a heady quality to the
night. He went to touch her where he wanted to touch her, where
he knew she most wanted to be touched, to gain some relief, some
respite from the endless desire she felt burning between her
legs.
"No," she said. "I can't." Formulating words was always
difficult when she was so far gone already. "My mother... I
can't help myself, I want you and I know I'll cry out... she'll
hear..." Fragmented sentences, then no sentences at all as he
lifted her top and began to suck, kiss, lick her breasts, taking
her into that netherworld beyond words where all that exists is
need and response, need and response.
He lifted her, carrying her to the kitchen, sitting at the table
behind the bench which obscured them both from the rest of the
house, undid his jeans and extracted himself carefully,
mercifully released from the painful binds. He was her one and
only lover ever, and the size of him was still amazing to her.
He sat down, and she took him, first in her hands, then in her
mouth. Her tongue moved relentlessly as she increased the tempo,
taking him beyond the point of no return. Then she pulled away.
"I want to watch you," she said.
His desire had taken him beyond arguing with her. As she
watched, she knelt up, removed her top with one hand, and then
her bra with the other, in a skilled, practised motion.
"They're beautiful," he breathed.
"Come on them, then," she replied. She watched as he took
himself higher, higher, ever higher, then, watching him, tended
to herself, performing for him, but also giving herself the
relief she so desperately needed. He came on her breasts, then
licked her clean. She was lying down now, and he took over from
her, kissing, licking, touching that most personal part of her.
As waves began overtaking her she began to moan. "Sssshh," he
reminded her, but she was beyond caring, and cried out as he gave
her that sweet satisfaction she had craved.
Her mum came through half an hour later, and an hour later he was
gone. A friend rang her and asked how the date had gone. "Fine,"
she said, licking her fingers. "Just fine."
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