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From: PeterPrin@yahoo.com
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Subject: {ASSM} Addicted (M/F), by Peter Principle
Date: Wed, 26 Apr 2000 23:10:45 -0400
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Copyright (c) 2000 by Peter Principle. Not for commercial use without
explicit permission from the author.
Addicted
He was addicted to her, addicted as strongly as to any narcotic he
could imagine, obsessed these last few months by the sight and the
smell and the feel of her. And for two hours every Tuesday afternoon,
in that same dreary motel room with the dingy off-white flowered
wallpaper and cheap brown laminated furniture, on that bed with the
tired, squeaking springs, he would feed his addiction.
Although in recent weeks she had seemed frustratingly indifferent to
him, still she always showed up, four o'clock sharp, undressing and
joining him in bed with a minimum of words. A brief time later, after
perfunctory foreplay and with a surrender to his rush that neared
desperation, she would lie beneath him, her ankles hooked together
behind his buttocks, her arms curled above her head and her wrists held
tightly by his fists, her breasts wobbling an erotic dance. Her head
would arch back into the mattress, her jaw jutting forward, and she
would emit soft moans that never quite seemed to match the rhythmic
grind of his hips.
He would try to make her climax before he himself succumbed, though he
was rarely successful, at least not in this initial hurried joining of
their bodies. Perhaps he was too frantic for her, too eager to remind
himself of the pleasures of her flesh, but it was almost always the
case that his lust overwhelmed him all too quickly. At the end he
would make one final driving thrust to gain that last fraction of an
inch, and then he would exhale a sharp, gasping cry as his body froze,
motionless, while his penis spurted its warm, thick offering. Without
fail she would clench her muscles around his proffered shaft and
methodically undulate her hips, straining against his weight, and watch
his face as she milked his release.
On this May afternoon, as he lay on top of her afterwards, panting and
perspiring from the sprint, she nudged his shoulders and
murmured, "You're too heavy," and only then did he ease his bulk back
up on his elbows and knees and reluctantly withdraw. He slumped at her
left side, falling onto his back with a sigh. His still-fat penis
flopped clumsily, glistening with their juices.
"Margaret," he began slowly, reaching for her hand, his eyes absent-
mindedly fixed on a ceiling crack above. "I wish you'd leave him."
"Don't start, Paul." She pulled her hand away from his, and he watched
her fingertips trickle through her matted pubic hair, then meander
upward across her belly to her right breast. Her skin glistened with a
sheen of sweat that came from the heat they'd generated between them.
Her fingers paused momentarily to circle her still engorged dark brown
nipple, and then they continued onward to trace her jaw line, first the
right side from below her ear to the point of her chin, then the
left. "God," she said, "You're sweaty today."
"It's hot," he replied, defensively. "I turned on the air conditioner
just before you got here." He disliked how she always changed that
subject whenever he raised it. Paul rolled on his side to face her,
tucking his right hand underneath his pillow and tentatively cupping
her left breast with his other hand. She just lay there, neither
objecting to his touch nor responding to it. Her right hand returned
to her belly just below her bellybutton, palm down.
Paul tried again. "But why won't you talk about it?"
Margaret's eyes closed. "Because. I told you. I can't leave him."
They fell silent. He knew better than to keep pressing. The
overworked air conditioner beneath the window finally cycled off,
leaving only the fan to blow barely chilled air upward, most of it
serving only to billow out the thin white inner curtains. Paul sighed
again, detached his moist hand from Margaret's breast, and again rolled
onto his back.
Six months, he thought, had it really been only six months? They'd met
at a Halloween party. She'd been there with her husband. An older
man, an artist. Her husband had flirted with every woman at the house,
including the woman Paul had brought. Paul had long since stopped
seeing that woman. Not since he'd become addicted.
Margaret hadn't seemed bothered by her husband's flirtations. They had
an understanding, she'd explained to Paul when they met a week later at
a coffee shop. It was an arrangement that was made clearer two weeks
after that when they met for dinner at a quiet downtown bistro and
afterwards had kissed and breathlessly groped each other in the
underground parking garage. And three days after that, it was a hotel
room.
Paul's contemplation yanked to the present when, without a word,
Margaret rolled to the edge of the bed, stood up, and walked around a
corner to the bathroom. The long splash of her stream in the toilet
was followed by a noisy flush, then by the sound of a full minute of
rushing water from the sink. Weeks previously, Paul would have joined
her in the bathroom, pressing up behind her at the sink, playfully
fondling her breasts until she would wriggle out of his grasp,
laughing, drawing him back to bed with a hand and a promise. Today he
allowed her her privacy. He sensed her irritation at him. Or at them.
When Margaret returned, she was drying her face with a hand towel. She
stood beside the bed, dabbing the towel at her underarms, then briefly
across the front of her body. Then she dropped the towel on the floor
and rejoined him in bed. This time she rolled on top of him,
straddling his hips. "You bring that up every week," she scolded him.
Her face was flushed from the heat of the room and the heat from his
body. Her vulva mashed against his penis. He felt her heat there, too.
"No I don't. It's been at least four."
"Two, then." They both measured time in weekly increments.
Paul closed his eyes and palmed her buttocks, pulling her closer. She
leaned her body forward and her mouth met his, open and soft and
receptive. When his fingertips reached around and dipped between her
legs from the rear, Margaret broke off the kiss and buried her face
against his neck and danced her hips to the rhythm of his touch.
"You're wet," he whispered, and she purred a wordless acknowledgement
and found his earlobe with a feline nip. He began to harden. Paul
extended two fingers to lightly capture the exposed shaft of her
clitoris, then repeatedly traced the edges of her generous inner labia
to her oozing vagina. As he stroked her, Margaret held her breath as
his fingers brushed along her clit, then she exhaled moistly in his ear
as his fingertips moved onward.
Paul's erection stirred lazily back to life as he thought about being
rigid and inside her again. She felt him against her belly, and she
began to move her hips in sync with his fingers. Margaret was always a
great lover, he thought to himself. Always knew what to do, how to
entice him, how to excite him. Paul dipped two fingers into her vagina
and she squeezed down around them, her purr becoming more constant.
Reaching between them with one hand, Margaret found him half-erect.
She shifted her body, did her magic with her fingers and her hips and
suddenly, wonderfully, his awakening erection slipped back inside her
silkiness and she wriggled her hips and settled down with a contented
sigh. His tentative intrusion grew steadily as her inner muscles
clutched at him, encouraging life back into the dead, reminding him
where he was and why she was there.
Neither of them spoke. Margaret controlled the pace with her hips
making languid figure eights on his shaft, holding him embedded as she
scratched herself around and around. He remained still, his hips held
high, and he followed the movements of her hips with his hands. She
kept her face pressed up against his neck, hidden from him.
As her climax approached, Margaret's movements became harsher, more
scrubbing and herky-jerky erratic. Paul's hands clenched possessively
at her hips. He loved this moment, loved feeling her pleasure whose
source was his cock inside her body, when he was however briefly
displacing her husband. She ground herself against his pubic bone and
growled from deep within her throat and then froze, held her breath for
five rapid heartbeats, and finally her whole body quivered and she
gasped out a high-pitched squeak, squirmed and cocked her hips to drive
him deeper, and held her breath again.
And then his own orgasm was upon him. Paul's erection swelled and he
allowed himself two stabbing thrusts into her expanding slickness and
then crested in his own explosion. They rocked against each other,
pleasure ricocheting between them, gasping wetly.
They clung to each other, hearts pounding, skin slick with
perspiration, panting for oxygen. "I love you," Paul whispered into
her hair. Margaret remained silent. He knew she had heard him. Then
he said it again, but this time only to himself.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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