Any Day of the Week Part Two — Jeremy Edwards

If you missed Part One of this sexy story read it here.

She settled back into her work, and I bided my time. Apart from studiously including her in my field of vision, I did not intrude on Nadine’s agenda while she worked at the computer, dashed to the printer, and ferried documents to the fax machine. But every time she rose, sat, or even shifted positions, I got a glimpse of cunt. And I began to notice that her eyes usually met mine, just instantaneously, after such a moment. It was as if she were silently asking, “Did you see my cunt that time? Did you see it?” It was driving me wild to know that she knew, all the time she was working, that she had an exposed cunt, and that I was watching, waiting for it to wink at me. And that, somewhere beneath her conscientious attention to her all-absorbing business presentation, she was, I could sense, turned on by this.

I began to home in on her rhythm. Her fingers tapping on the keyboard, her legs shifting position, her papers rustling . . . these themes interacted to establish an erotic beat that was punctuated by her unconscious flashing, which was becoming more frequent. Tappity-tap WINK rustle-rustle WINK shift-rustle-rustle-shift WINK.

And, every time she flashed me, I looked for the first hint of wetness. At last, at the moment when she momentarily parted and closed her legs in conjunction with a particularly emphatic click of the mouse, I was sure I saw lips that subtly glistened. I put down my book and gave her my full attention, waiting for the next development.

When I seemed to see her hand flit once again between her legs a few minutes later, the motion was so quick that I wasn’t sure of what I’d seen, despite my unwavering focus.

“Horny now?” I asked, in a tone falsely calm, as though my interest were mere idle curiosity.

“Um, I—” She was actually blushing. My pulse began to race.

“I thought I saw you touching yourself.”

“I don’t remember. I was concentrating.” She tried to get back to work.

I stood and walked toward her, meeting her eyes and offering what I hoped was my most seductive smile. “Concentrating or not, you can at least tell if you’re getting wet, can’t you?”

“Fuck!” she suddenly said.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“It wasn’t a request, Bernard, it was a garden-variety expletive. I just lost a contact lens.”

“Oh. Well then, let me help you find it.” I began to explore the carpet at her feet. I didn’t see the lens. I looked up, about to relay the bad news. But, as I raised my eyes, I found it. It had dropped onto the edge of her skirt. And, just as I spied it, it toppled a bit further and came delicately to rest on her person, nesting exquisitely in her bush. I grinned from ear to ear.

“Don’t move,” I coached.

“I won’t. Where is it?”

“Where indeed. Hold perfectly still.” I kissed her ankle.

“Mmm,” she said involuntarily, and her legs twitched. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing your ankle,” I specified.

“I thought you were picking up my contact lens.”

“I’m multitasking.”

“Perhaps you should do a little less multi and a little more tasking,” she suggested. “Ohh . . . that feels good,” she added.

I kissed my way up her right leg, as far as the inside of her knee. I paused there to note the effect of my attentions on what a meteorologist might call the “glisten index” above. I was gratified by what I saw. I began anew on the left leg, beginning once again at the ankle.

“Bernard . . .”

“I’m busy.”

“No, I’m busy. You’re distracting me. Ohhh, wow . . .” I had just reached the back of her left knee, where I lingered. Her legs were definitely indulging in a hip-driven swivel now, and her cunt was morphing from a pair of tight, glistening lips into a moist, yawning creature that wakes up hungry.

The contact lens was still resting safely in her thatch, so I knew I could stretch this out a little longer. I kissed upward along the inside of her left thigh.

“Bernard . . . oh . . . the lens, Bernard.”

“Got it,” I said. And I had. It was between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. The other fingers were now pressing gently on Nadine’s mound.

I offered up the contact lens, which she claimed, and I immediately returned my hand to the place where I’d found the lens. You never know, I thought—there might be another lens, or something else of importance, lost in her garden. I duly explored the area with gentle motions of my hand. She began to purr, so I inserted the forefinger of my left hand just within her moistening lips. She parted her thighs a bit further and shivered sensuously. I intensified my intimate caress and resumed kissing the most delicate parts of her leg.

Her groan told me that she had psychologically passed the point of no return, had finally resigned herself to a toe-tingling sexual release on this busy Monday night. As I sped up the motion of the finger that tickled her insides, I cooed my admiration.

“You’re gorgeous,” I told her. “Gorgeous,” I repeated. “GORGEOUS,” I said an unnecessary third time, at a slightly higher volume. By now she was dripping, and I knew that she would want my articulate tongue. I eased my finger out, gently clenched her knee joints, and began to smother her delicate core with wet tastes along every bit of her exposed femininity and within its invisible depths. Every squirm of her ass pressed her hot spots sensuously against the earnest mouth that titillated and sizzled.

As she ground her pussy compulsively against me, her groans intensified and shaped themselves into a consonant. “Mmm, mmm, mmm,” she intoned, with rhythmic insistence.

My tongue worked harder, and her thighs began to tremble around my ears. Her ass cheeks were hot as fresh-baked rolls. “Mmm . . . mmm . . .” She was trying to say more. As she gasped between the incipient cries of urgent, orgasmic bliss, a word emerged, belted with ecstatic surprise:

“Mmmm . . . m—m—Mmmonday,” she crooned, shaking, her song diffusing into tender, rapturous whimpers, her cunt kissing me wetly, her arms flopping weakly, gracefully onto my shoulders.

I stood up, and she led me to the love seat, where she collapsed on her flank. I had managed to remove only one trouser leg before she reached into my shorts and pulled me toward, onto, and into her. She was so slick that I slid in effortlessly. She was still wearing the peacock blue skirt, and it tickled my belly as I rocked languidly through the few short moments it took for me to spasm giddily into her slippery, tingling embrace and fill her with sticky weeknight distraction.

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Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (both published by Xcite Books). His libidinous short stories have been widely published online, as well as in over forty anthologies. His work was selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7, 8, and 9, and he has read at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.