Doing the Math Part 2 — Jeremy Edwards

Did you miss the first chapter of Doing the Math? Read it here.

It’s a great fuckin’ party—at least in my book.

But it’s not half as great as the afterparty, the intimate get-together that I know will result in Wendy. It’s 3:00 and they’re home now, and Wally’s dying to see Sharon undone. And he does: Dress off her shoulders and hiked to the waist, under bathroom fluorescence. Panties down. Musky scent up. Expanses of hip revealed; beautiful woman exposed. Beautiful woman relaxing. Peeing. Breathing sensually for him, her chest pulsing against his fingers. Leading him back to the bedroom, with her bodice flapping at the waist and her skirt fluttering down her legs again. The panties stay behind on the bathroom floor. I can see them there—plum-colored, bikini-cut undies on display in the white light, still warm from Sharon’s magnificent ass cheeks.

He can’t wait to fuck her. Usually they ease into it, with kisses, with soft buttock slaps, with grasping hands and inserted fingers and humble tickles on bare flesh. But they’ve had their foreplay—delicious, slow-motion hours of it—and when Sharon parts her legs as far as she can atop the ribbed bedspread, Wally is left with no doubt as to what she wants and when she wants it.

And where.

Yes, I can picture how wet she is. Her blonde curls are getting moist where they frame her sensitized lips. She’s open and dripping and needs my cock.

Sorry—I mean Wally’s cock, naturally. I don’t exist.

Professor Wallace Drake is in fine voice. He’s an accomplished lecturer; and as he slides in and out, in and out of Sharon, he’s telling her things. Things she already knows but is, presumably, happy to hear. About how exquisitely raunchy she looks with her paisley party dress collapsed around her. About how insanely good it feels to have her hot pussy pampering his cock. About how she smells—wine-kissed and salty and raw—and how this fragrance is turning him into an animal.

He reminds her of moments from the party: His surreptitious thumb at the elastic on her thigh, when they were cuddling on the couch. Her hand grazing his hard-on. Maybe, he points out as he fucks her cunt extra deep, Jacqueline saw her do that.

Wally’s been talking a lot, talking and pumping. But he knows how fiercely the sensations are building for Sharon—her moans tell quite a story of their own—and he knows it’s time to drive her wild by prompting her to do some of the talking. Because Wally’s not only a skilled lecturer, but also an excellent discussion leader.

He speaks quietly now, right into her face. “How are you feeling? Does it feel pretty nice to have me between your legs, dancing up and down in your pussy?” He watches his words tickle lewd twitches across her mouth.

“Uh . . . uh-huh,” is all my Sharon manages. She’s no slouch as a lecturer and seminar leader herself, but she’s a little overwhelmed just now.

“Tell me how it feels. Will you? Can you? Come on, baby.” He knows this is it. He fucks her steadily while she jerks the syllables out.

“God, it’s—ah!—right there and . . . I’m . . . f-full and . . . y’know—oh fuck!—inside I . . . ohhhhh . . . I can’t . . . it’s . . . eeeeee, oh Wally fuck fuck fuck I’m gonna c—aohhnhh . . .”

I can envision every detail, down to the spelling of the orgasm that comes out of Sharon’s mouth.

The sound of her coming knocks Wally’s hands off the helm. He loses it for her, grandly derailed . . .

And I have a pal named Wendy.

I think about New Year’s Eve, ’82-’83, a lot—rewinding frequently to my favorite parts. How many times have I revisited the scene of Wendy’s conception, this week alone? Let me count the come rags, my friends.

And now it’s almost Wendy’s birthday again. Since she happens to be in town for the weekend visiting her folks, I’ve offered to take her out for beers.

She invites me in, and I spend a few minutes in the living room with Wendy and Sharon—which, I promise you, is no hardship. We have the usual sort of conversation about how the years fly by.

“Wendy was a New Year’s Eve baby,” her mother says proudly. I can tell she’s reminiscing. Oh yes, this woman is sexy as hell.

“Really?” says Wendy. Incredibly, she’s already forgotten that she figured the whole thing out last year. But that’s Wendy for you. She listens with interest while Sharon explains the January 1st + 9 months = early October stuff.

“Wow,” Wendy remarks, with a sincerity that annoys me. “I never realized that!”

I can’t help myself. “I knew,” I assure Sharon.

And Sharon smiles at me like New Year’s Eve, ’82-’83, will always be a special piece of trivia between us—no matter how many more times Wendy might figure it out and then forget.

I’m in a pretty good mood as I pop into Wally’s study, to say a quick hello.

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Did you miss the first chapter of Doing the Math? Read it here.

Jeremy is a favorite author here on Every Night Erotica click here to read more from him.

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. You may find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.