Beverly sat naked on the sofa of her small apartment on the third floor. In deep thought her blank stare was focused on a small, original, half full, Coke bottle in her left hand. Breaking her concentration, holding the bottle with thumb and two fingers, she placed the still chilled bottle between her spread thighs, then, repositioned her hand to press it against her vagina. Feeling the pleasurable coolness she continued her thoughts on why the evening had ended as it did.
She thought started a ways back before she had moved to the South to be near her son and his family. The jealousy she had felt for her son began shortly after a boyfriend, the love of her life, fell to his death 10 years earlier. From that point, she hated every girl that George, her son, had ever dated, but felt a special animosity towards the two girls she had accidentally caught him screwing in her bed. Both times, arriving home early, she remembered vividly watching them - watching him, long minutes, screwing passionately, before making her present known, intervening, cursing and condemning them both.
Afterward , for years, she never let him forget his indiscretions and taunted him with sexual accusations and innuendos. Also, neglecting her modesty, she started appearing scantily clad, around him - a few times bra-less, her hands doing little more than covering her nipples. She could never admitted to herself her newly acquired incestuous desires for him, telling herself she would never act on them. That is, until she moved south.
He had been married 10 years when she had taken up residence in the high-rise apartment just 20 minutes from his home. In no time at all, she had set up a schedule with him to shop, have breakfast out or cook for him, at least once a week. She made up items in the apartment that only he could take care of, and, she knew he could only do after work, in the early evening. Those evening around him, watching him as he did things for her, brought out suppressed desires and the devil in her.
It had not been long before he had begun to complain about his sex life - the lack of. Elated, it benefited her cause to renew her old habit of accusations and sexual innuendos. The bitch in apartment 1-C became a favorite target in accusing him of adulterous indiscretions, while still sympathizing with his lack of satisfaction at home.
She smiled to herself, remembering the fact that she had always been able to maintain an air of innocence, that she was only interested in his well-being, only taking his side against his wife because he was so sexually unhappy. He voiced total faithfulness, but it had not stopped her from taunting him, reminding him his wife was the cause of his wanton desires – that she made up. She openly challenged his commitment to faithfulness.
After taking a long drink of Coke, she breathed a sigh of distress, remembering the afternoon – the beginning two hours earlier – the disastrous end 20 minutes ago.
He had simply dressed and walked out, leaving her laying on the bed naked. Through oral stimulation he had brought her to a very memorable orgasm. She could not remember ever having one stronger. After his abrupt leaving, she first felt disbelief, then, relief, ending in, anguish, inwardly admitting that she had indeed dressed appealingly for him. Corned, losing verbal ground, she had actually openly admitted it to him. She had berated him for accusing her of dressing for the men in the apartment complex. Then, surprising her, he had admitted she was a sensuous and attractive woman – always had been - more so when she was dressed to kill, like tonight, barefoot around the apartment. He had joked she was his type - and did indeed appreciated her effort, if it was, she had finally admitted, only for him. Adding, he hated the way men eyed her.
Standing in front of him as he did the work requested, the screwdriver slipped and she had teasingly accused him of being a bad screw-er.
His reply, "put a little hair around this and I could screw it better", was unexpected and had actually embarrassed her and she disappeared into the small kitchen for a few moments. She had inwardly awarded herself for her brazen remark and cleverness for taunting into a lewd response.
She remembered an earlier time, heading out the door for dinner, when she had asked him was he coming and he had answered, "no just breathing hard". When challenged as to what he had said, he had only muttered an innocent "nothing" going pass her out the door.
When she had returned to watch him, he had surprised her by asking her if she padded her bra to make her breast look bigger, adding, that while it was very sexy and arousing, the sweater must be uncomfortably warm in the stuffy apartment. The question hit her wrong. Had he not seen them unclothed? She voiced indignation, recovered, remembering the goal, assuring him in a seductive tone that they were very real. Again, annoying her to no end, she felt embarrassment her anger and turned toward the stove, pretending to do something
Then, her body had stiffened, annoyance had surged, not at him but at herself, as she felt his presence close behind her,
telling her, "I don't know if I should believe you are not. Do you mind if I put my mind at ease?".
She had rallied, expressing he should do just that! Her seduction was coming about! She had to keep the ball rolling. She had offered to remove her sweater to give him a good unobstructed look and he had helped her remove it, turning her. After toying with her bra covered breast for a long minute, he had asked her not to be shy. She had unclasped her bra, removing it too, wondering what he might think of her slightly sagging breast. Still, she could not look into his eyes, feeling embarrassed.
"They are still as lovely as I remember. Stan's death changed something in you. I've always missed your teasing and neglect covering up after the accident. I always peeked! Things were different back then. I understand why you were reluctant to show me your nipples. They are superb. I suppose you are more relaxed knowing all is safe for us."
When she had asked how so, she remembered her body quivering when he answered, "I had the vasectomy a year ago. If you were to allow me to screw you, there would be no worry of complications now. I think you wanted me to screw you back then but were afraid. Do you - want me to screw you?"
She had not answered the question. Of course she knew of the operation – felt foolish for asking – wanted to tell him he was right about it all. When he lowered his head to take her left nipple into his mouth, it seemed to be a sufficient answer to his question. Her right hand wrapped around the back of his head and pulled it to her breast. To remain quiet gave her deniable culpability. After all, mothers did not allow sons to take such liberties as he was doing.
In time, she had not resisted his efforts to unzip her tight fitting skirt and push it off her hips, though her hand, at first, interfered with his efforts. As he continued to ravish her breast, when the skirt dropped, she kicked it free, leaving her wearing only her panties.
As he palmed his right hand between her legs, she queried, pertaining to nothing specific. "can I see it?".
After taking her last drink of Coke, she smiled, remembering him stepping away from her, unbuckling his pants, dropping them, stepping out of them, dropping his briefs, stepping out of them and kicking all clear. Her eyebrows lifted as she remembered him moving in close, offering his cock for her touch. She put the mouth of the bottle to her pussy, inserting a good two inches, stroking slowly, remembering his warm, firmness in her hand.
****
Reminiscing;
I had let him strip me of my panties – my last vestige of dignity! In the haughty venue of the tiny kitchenette, by the stark illumination of the 100w light bulb over head, he kissed me all over. I became self-conscious of my nude body. How could I compete with his ultra-thin wife. I deem myself over-weight with bellyfat.
Turning me, he kissed my ass, telling me it's what I wanted every man to do. I did, of course, but my intent was not meant to be as sensuous, like he was doing. Turning me again, he had put his nose into my bush, kissed my inter-thighs, me, widening my stance.
Then, I had let him lead me by the hand out of the kitchenette, extending his left arm toward, I figured, the bedroom. Why had he not stuck his cock in me right there against the stove, the wall, or, placed me on the table or the sofa and screwed me? It's what I had wanted! He followed me studying my ass – glancing back, I saw him smiling – heard his comments on my walk and its attributes.
Beverly, ceasing a now more rapid stroke, pulled the Coke bottle from her, discarding it. She stood and mindlessly walked to the bathroom, stepped into the shower and adjusted the water. Standing under the stinging hot spray she tried to make sense of what had happened in the bedroom.
