Kinky erotica...
"Obsessionated"
a naughty sex story by Martha McKinley
Debi Brushing Her Hair, by Mike Crawley available at ObsessionArt.com For the seventh time that day she dialed his number, and counted each ring.
“One.”
She inhaled deeply.
“Two.”
“Threeeee.” She pleaded into the receiver.
“Hello,” he said.
She hung up, and sighed.
The two items she required were on the table next to the door. She wrenched her sweatshirt off over her head and shed her Levis. A robe and sandals would suffice.
With a trembling hand she started the engine, backed out, shifted into first, and accelerated. She checked the dash clock and set the trip meter. It would take exactly eleven minutes.
She dimmed her high beams. The oncoming lights flickered through the trees, illuminating the weathered barn with its magnificent silo, then shone into her eyes before fading past her. Six point nine more miles.
“What a waste of a day it had been,” she confessed to the emptiness. “Nothing accomplished.” Her house was a sty. Guests due tomorrow. This always seemed to happen when time was so precious.
Like so often before, it got in her way. The itch she simply couldn’t get to, the urge that just wouldn’t be quelled. That need of hers.
Today, it had seemingly begun with the bulbous handle of the butter knife she was washing. As she passed it in and out of her tightly clenched fist, titillating that region of her tiny body, she was forced to back away from the sink full of dishes and press her arse against the corner of the counter top, grinding into it, hands dripping sudsy water all over her jeans and onto the tile floor.
Then the rest of the morning and all afternoon she gave into it. Arching against a cherry cabinet pull, straddling her facetted glass French-door knob, rocking on an oak barstool with an agate pestle snug against her anus with her bikini briefs stretched high over her hips—all the while chastising herself for work that wasn’t getting done.
After hours of teasing herself, she knew she had to give in. She had to see him.
She turned at the wrought iron signpost with the gold ball on top. His place was less than a minute down this rutted road.
A lone Chevy truck was parked in the drive. Only him, tonight.
She shut off the engine, reached onto the passenger seat for the night’s offerings, and hurried to the back step. Shifting from leg to leg, she waited for her knock to be answered. He opened the door and smiled as he received the little jar of Vicks® and the pearl-handled hairbrush. A gestured sweep of his arm directed her past him and into the kitchen. But she didn’t stop until she reached his bedroom.
Kicking off sandals and letting her robe fall to the floor, she bent over to remove her soggy underwear, and then laid herself prone upon the pile of pillows in the middle of the double bed. She waited, her pelvis rocking in slow circles, her desire welling over.
Footsteps padded in behind her; she stole a look. Just like he appeared last week: tall, lanky, muscular. And between his legs, his phallus, swelling and flushed in anticipation.
She settled into the bedding and oozed.
The jar clunked on the nearby tabletop. She gripped the brass headboard.
With her face buried deeply into the downy pillow, she screamed as the first blow from the hairbrush scorched her bared ass. And then the second. She counted them, silently, after each shriek. He struck again. She winced. Twenty-one. Then once more. Twenty-two. Her tightened lips parted to release a deep-throated moan. She spread herself wider.
The bed rocked. His heat was near. He balmed her butt. She gyrated with the slurping sound of his fully infused cock being liberally anointed.
Sex toys and vibrators had been forbidden, as her compulsions to use them were unrelenting. A lubed Venus® razor handle; condom-covered window crank; chilly marble chess piece; knobby-tipped parsnip—she had had to make do with household objects before he was around. Not any more.
With a grunt he was finally inside, stretching and filling her, and she, bracing and clenching; his every plunge expunging her need, freeing her tethered mind—at least for this one blessed moment. He reached around to her clitoris and pressed it hard against her pubic bone. With her gasps, he rammed into her more ferociously until, teetering on the brink, she tensed. Then he pushed her over, and, in their freefall, he unloaded.
The hairbrush, now, was raked through black velvety tangles to sobs of gratitude. His palm drew circles on her back. So softened that it could no longer be gripped, his flaccidity was expelled. He left her to be alone.
To the flames in her buttocks and the mentholated afterglow inside her hole, she vowed, “Tomorrow, I’ll get everything done.” And she slept with that conviction. Guiltlessly.
Originally published December 2010