Three minutes to go. Sweat poured down her body, the rhythmic motion left her in an almost hypnotic state. It had been so long. She always liked the slow start, the gradual build-up, the brief sprints and the languid slow downs as she caught her breath. But she was tired now, the minutes ticked away and she had to hold on just to keep at it, to keep moving, her muscles sore, tightening up.
Finally, the program ended and she hit the button. The treadmill slowed and then stopped, and she got off, feeling beat, but energized. It had been so long since she had such a grueling workout, but in the 40 minutes she had managed to sneak away from the hubby and kids, she made the most of it.
She wiped the sweat off her face with the towel, headed upstairs for a long shower. The kids' rooms were dark—one was sleeping, the other saying last goodnights one last time for the fifth or sixth time. Quickly, she slipped into the bedroom, locked the door behind her to prevent unwanted intruders, stripped out of her sweatpants and shirt, and grabbed a quick peek at her body in the mirror. It had been shaping up quite nicely. Her hubby loved it anyway—he could barely keep his hands off her. She pulled off the sports bra, setting free her stimulated breasts, her nipples tingling slightly from the friction of the workout, rising to attention in the cool air of the bathroom.
It was sometime in the middle of soaping up—she couldn't remember when, perhaps her as she rubbed her ass or her calves or her feet—when she thought "Damn!" Her vibe, out of reach now, would have come in so handy. The warm water coursed down her body, washing away the soap and sweat. She felt stimulated but hungry. Nudging the faucet handle slightly, she cooled the water to try to take the edge off this sudden endorphin-fueled lust, but the shock of the chill caught her by surprise, producing even more of a shocking, stimulating effect, and she quickly finished the shower. She knew she had a brief window of opportunity to take care of matters, and that there was something in that old shoe box under the bed that she could use about now.
Hurriedly, she dried, not very thoroughly really, and slipped into her robe. In her delicates drawer, she fished around the various unmentionables and found something that made her feel sexy—a breezy silk thong, which cradled her pussy like a soft hand. She pulled it on, feeling the thin strap ride up between her legs and through her crack, a gentle restraining reminder that felt both connecting and liberating. The crotch piece dampened, and she couldn't tell for sure whether it was her own wetness or her hasty drying job that made it so. She walked to the bed, dropped to a knee and extracted the objects of her desire, one in each hand.
It was always a hard choice, picking the right tool for the job. There were those days when she felt businesslike, almost Japanese, preferring the slim sleek smoothness of a prim little leopard torpedo, with its laser beam focus on the task at hand. The brisk workout, the whole petite and feminine feel of the thong—she could go for that smooth snappy kind of orgasm now, quickly and sharply. But then there were nights like tonight, when she also craved something bigger, gnarlier really, something that could throw a little stretch and variety into the mix. She tossed them both on the bed, wishing she didn't have to choose.
Dropping her robe, she laid down on her stomach on the bed. Screw it, she thought, her hand finding the angled thickness of the chili pepper, dialing it on to a strong vibe. Tonight I feel a little more slutty than prissy.
She worked the vibe down to her thong, raising it up to permit entrance to the warming space between her legs, resting it outside against the silk, the vibe so strong that it may as well have been inside for all the power it was delivering to her swollen clit. She pulled up, the feeling so tense, then went back down for more as a blissful numbing worked its way from her feet up her legs. After a minute of the undulating motion of her hips, there was no mistaking the wetness that penetrated the thong as anything other than her own. She ground her teeth unconsciously, gritting as each slow pelvic revolution brought her spiraling closer to fulfillment. Deftly, she slipped the angled tip inside the thong, pushing the material to the side, grazing her swollen lips along the way, letting them envelop the shaft. Her hips arched and she traded the vibe head for tail so that it could penetrate her more easily, coming in from behind, sliding in an inch to where the tip arched against her g-spot, like a finger motioning "come here" against the cushy, swollen pad inside her. Neglecting her clit entirely, she worked this spot until that deeper craving and sensation came, a warmth, as if all the blood in her body had concentrated in her pelvis and torso, producing a sense of being hugged from the inside.
