Did you miss Part One of this romantic and sexy tale? Read it here first.
I hurry down the stairs and out the front door. I can’t shake the image of Peter’s cock—red, purple and swollen, a gob of come on his belly.
Outside, I remember that he can see me through his window. I risk a peek over my shoulder, but I don’t see him.
As I cross the lawn and enter my house, all I can think of is how I would like to watch Peter masturbate. If I had been quieter as I walked up his stairs and held my breath in the doorway, could I have seen what he was doing without him seeing me? Maybe. If the door had been only slightly ajar. If I had held my breath instead of sucking it in. If. If. If.
I have known Peter since the day my husband Jack and I moved into this house. Peter and Jack had instantly become friends. Last summer, when Jack was killed in Iraq, Peter had cried almost as much at his funeral as I did. Almost.
A twinge of guilt washes over me. Jack has been gone less than a year, and I am already fantasizing about someone else. I try to tell myself it’s only natural, but every time I think about another man I can’t help but feel as though I’m somehow cheating on my husband or being unfaithful to his memory.
I have always been a sexual woman, and Jack had more than satisfied my appetite. I wonder if I will ever feel so satisfied again. Will I find someone I love even a fraction of the amount that I love Jack? Probably not, but that doesn’t mean I can’t ever allow myself to get close to someone again.
Here in my bedroom, looking at the picture of Jack and me on the nightstand, I think about the day it was taken. Peter had come over to welcome us into the neighborhood. It was our very first house, and we were excited about it. When Jack hugged his arm around me that day for the photo, I had felt so much love radiating from him that my own body temperature rose.
These months since he died have been hard, no doubt. I miss having him in bed with me at night. I miss his smile and his encouragement. And, I miss the sex.
Sex. I had bought a vibrator months ago, and I have used it often, especially lately. But the vibrator isn’t as good as the real thing. God, I miss the real thing.
I reach inside the nightstand drawer and pull out the purple dildo. I allow myself to entertain the fantasy that Peter wants me. I slip out of my clothes and recline on the bed, spread my legs and tease my labia with the dildo. Eyes closed, I finally allow myself to entertain an entire fantasy about Peter. Oh, I’ve imagined him with me before, but always with guilt tingeing the edges of every fantasy. This time, I fight back the guilt, allow myself to admit that I want him. I can still see his swollen cock, the way his broad hand with its tapered fingers had moved to shield his cock once he felt my presence in the house. Only, I allow myself to pretend he didn’t see me. Instead, Peter is lying there, moaning as he touches himself.
I start to get wet. As the dildo slips inside me, I spread my legs a little more and imagine Peter’s cock finding its way inside me. The head is broad and shaped like a mushroom. His thickness fills me up. The dildo glides in and out, in and out. In and out. The purple toy is wet from my moisture.
When I come home from work on Monday, Alyssa is grilling in her side yard, the side that faces my house. I throw a hand up at her. She motions for me to come over.
“Want to join me for steak?” she asks. “I’ve got plenty.”
“Sure,” I say.
I’m thinking about the other day, about how embarrassing it was.
Alyssa turns away from me to place a cooked steak on a platter. Her clothes are bright like sunshine against her dark brown skin. The skirt is orange and very long. It floats from side to side as she walks.
“How was work?” she asks, coming back toward me. I feel my cock stir when I see how her white tank hugs her full breasts. I want to tongue them, suck her nipples.
“Same ole thing. Chased the bad guys for a little while.”
“You’ve been a cop for such a long time. I bet you’re really good at it.”
I nod, not knowing what else to say. She’s smiling at me.
“I’ll go change clothes. Be back soon,” I tell her. I glance down at my cock, relieved that it hasn’t tented in my pants.
At home, I peel off my uniform and take a shower, letting the water run colder than usual. Standing naked in front of my bathroom mirror, I look at my pecs, flex my arms a little. I work out with some buddies after work a few days each week, and I know my body is firmer than most guys’. Women flirt with me, and I’m good-looking, but I wonder if Alyssa is attracted to me. Does she even like white guys at all? She’s black, and her husband Jack was a black man.
I rummage through the T-shirts in my drawer. I think about wearing a muscle shirt, but decide that it would be too casual.
“You’re acting like a damned woman.” I say.
I rarely have such trouble deciding on an outfit, unless it’s for a date.
By the time I finally get dressed, comb my hair and spritz cologne, it’s already dark outside. Alyssa sits waiting for me at the patio table. Five tea candles are arranged in a circle around some yellow flowers in the center of the patio table. Our food looks delicious, and so does she.
“This looks great,” I compliment her.
“So do you, Mr. Button-down Shirt.”
I laugh. It’s true that I’m usually a jeans-and-t-shirts guy. I hope she doesn’t think I’m trying too hard.
I sit across from her and pick up my fork, noticing that she hasn’t touched her food yet. We start to eat. The steak is braised with barbeque sauce. We each have a buttered baked potato along with some steamed vegetables.
“Mmm,” I moan. “Thank you so much. This is great.”
Alyssa looks up at the stars. The moon is full, and it’s quiet except for the insect sounds coming from the forested part of her back yard.
“We need to get together more often.” I tell her as I stand up to help clear the table. I follow her inside the house.
Together, we wash the dinner dishes. We’re standing only about a foot apart. The whole house smells fresh and clean, like lemon and bleach. I admire how neat she keeps the place. There are fresh cut flowers and potted plants in the dining room and the kitchen.
“So what are you up to tonight?” I ask, once I’ve placed the two clean plates in the cupboard.
“Just gonna watch some TV in the basement, lounge around.”
“Sounds relaxing. Want company?”
I follow her downstairs, admiring once again the way the orange skirt flows behind her.
Despite my attraction to Alyssa, watching TV with her in the basement reminds me of her husband. Jack and I had spent so many Sundays watching football together down here on their big screen TV. In one corner, Jack’s pool table—now collecting dust—still sat. Jack and I and a couple of the neighborhood guys used to get together and shoot pool here sometimes.
Alyssa sees me looking at the pool table and says, “It reminds you of Jack, doesn’t it?”
“I can’t bring myself to throw it out.”
“You know I’m here for you to talk to…” I trail off, wishing I knew what to say in situations like these.
Awkwardly, I reach over to hug her. She steps into my arms. I hold her tight, smell the floral scent of her black hair. I like that she’s so much smaller than me. She’s only about 5’2” to my 6’2”.
I hugged her at Jack’s funeral, but it had been a quick, friendly hug. This time is different. This time she presses her body into me and whispers, “You’re sweet, Peter.”
If only she knew what I was thinking, she probably wouldn’t see me as sweet anymore. I feel my cock start to stir again. Instinctively, I pull away from her, not wanting her to feel my arousal. To my surprise, she holds on tighter, presses her palms flat against my back. I smooth her black hair and look down at her face. She’s so beautiful—full lips and some of the smoothest skin I’ve ever seen. I touch her cheek, and then she kisses me full on the mouth. Her tiny, cool hands find their way under my shirt. They feel their way up my abdomen, and then she starts to play with my chest hair. I moan against her mouth and place both my hands on her ass, squeeze and grope it. Her booty is so warm and thick. I think I can come just from touching her. I walk backward toward the couch, our lips still pressed together.
“No, darling,” she says, “the pull-out.” She gestures toward the pull-out couch in the wall.
I had forgotten it was there. We walk over to it, hand-in-hand. I reach up and grab the handle. A blanket and pillow are already half folded on top of the mattress. I spread the blanket out quickly. When I turn around to face her, she has already removed her tank top. Her bra is white, such a contrast to her skin. I’m semi erect now and getting harder every second. I reach out and touch the lacy bra. She closes her eyes and reaches back to unhook the bra. Her breasts spill out, and I start to explore them. They are full and warm and soft as biscuits. Slowly, I lean over and run my tongue around one nipple. The sound that escapes her brings out a sensation in me, like someone rubbing ice at the nape of my neck.
My hands start to take off her skirt, fingers eager and trembling. I touch her hips, enjoy the shape of them, the softness of them. Then my hands want her pussy. I slip one hand into Alyssa’s lacy panties. She’s trimmed but not shaven. I feel her soft tufts of hair, allow my fingers to separate her lips.
“I need you on the bed.” I say.
She lies on her back, removes her panties.
I slip off my pants, boxers and the button-down shirt.
Alyssa touches my cock, strokes it up and down.
“Go ahead. Give it a kiss.”
She grins at me, then leans over and presses her soft, thick lips to the tip of my cock. Slowly she rains kisses up and down the shaft, leaving faint trails of her red lipstick all over my skin.
I part her legs and slip slowly inside her. She moans, and then puts her hands on my hips, encouraging me. Slowly we find a rhythm. I crouch down closer to her. Kiss her lips, her soft cheek, her neck.
I had always imagined sex with her to be a wild frenzy, but this is soft, romantic. Alyssa wraps her arms around me as we fall off the edge of the earth together.
Read Harding Marconi’s other stories published on Every Night Erotica, here.
Harding Marconi is a writer from Boston. His work has appeared in various literary magazines. This is his first erotic short story.