Window Fog
If regret had a taste, it would taste sweet and musky like her pussy. If sorrow had a smell, it would be the heady odor of sweat and cum mingled together on her belly, in her mouth. Yes, if I could mourn at all, I would have her juices drip down my chin while I wailed into the air.
Instead, I just fogged up the window.
I watched as my husband rolled her over, careful to not let her stiletto heels scrape his erect cock. He roughly grabbed her hips and pulled her to his mouth, covering her pussy, moving his head from side to side and then licking up her ass. Her head was thrown back as she knelt, breasts dangling and shimmy-wiggling as she moved. My heart pounded and my legs shook as I reached down to finger myself, my breathing fogging up the window. I was slick and wet and swollen. Like how I imagined she was. I closed my eyes and imagined, my mouth coaxing her nipples taut; I could hear her muffled moans through the glass, fueling my thoughts.
In the far reaches of my mind I knew I should be devastated, watching this woman wearing only her heels, writhing on my bed. It should have felt like her heels, sharp, piercing, like a real stiletto, stabbed my insides. Instead, my fingers found my clit and rubbed, barely able to stay on task for how slippery-hot I had become. My other hand plunged into my cunt as I watched my husband fuck her, fuck her hard and fast. Fuck her like he never fucked me.
I wondered what would happen if I walked in. What would they do? Would he jump off of her, make excuses while she modestly pulled up my Percale sheets to cover her flushed breasts? Would he roll off of her and hold out his hand, beckoning me to taste her, languor in her scent, her folds.... I could almost taste her, the wetness slick around my mouth as I licked long, steady strokes up her clit while thrusting my fingers in her. I brought my hand up to devour my fingers, and thrust them down my jeans again. She must taste like this ... sweet, heavenly, perfumed.
Then he would take me. He would penetrate me and I would moan into her pussy, making her wail, writhe, beg, pray; and he would watch me make her cum. She was a squirter, too. I would lick up everything she gave me; then it would be my turn. He would bury his mouth against my pussy, to eat me, all of me.
But I didn’t go in; I didn’t see what she would be like – they would be like. No ... I watched her walk, naked to the chair where her clothes rested. I watched as my husband kissed her, touched her. I watched as he paid her.
I can’t even remember what she looks like. All I remember is her stiletto heels.
Copyright © 2007 by Trinity Wolf. All rights reserved.
Trinity Wolf is a pen name for an established published author living in Salt Lake City, Utah. Ms. Wolf portents a new voice in erotic literature, writing erotica like she enjoys reading it: filled with sensual imagery and, of course, she likes it hot. She has won awards in erotic fiction, and hopes to continue pushing the envelope and creating new and exciting material for her readers. The Mediation: Initiation, (Forbidden Publications ) will be available in August, 2007 and is the first in a series of short stories chronicling the adventures of a hot-blooded minister and her secret and unexpected lover.
Trinity is the mother of three children, three cats and enjoys early morning communion with her coffee and the deer who frequent her yard.
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