August 2, 2003

• I broke down and decided to check out Kevvie's Christian party last night.   Held in her church's reception room, it was about what I expected:  dull as dull can be.   No music.  Glaring fluorescent lights.  Peepz loitering around trying to be good.   Peepz struggling to play folk guitar so we could sing righteous Christian songs.   Name tags, for chrissakes.   When two older single guys started debating the proper way to propose marriage according to Paul ("You have to ask her father first; it's up to him whether he wants to give away his daughter"), I knew I'd had enough and got up from the little circle sitting on the carpet to help out in the kitchen, one of those large community deals that looks like it were designed by Mike Brady.   Kevvie was in there making more fruit juice punch to accompany the wholesome oatmeal cookies; apparently soda pop was too sinful.   Someone brought some of that heavy black, whole wheat, barley and lentil Ezekial Bread (the one that's supposed to make you live as long as Methuselah)  I've always wanted the recipe for, though.

  
  

  Then I got a call on my cell from Bruce.   Hearing about our recent North Coast vacation and in need of work, he'd decided to get in his car and just keep driving.  He was in Monterey right now, stopped at a tavern.   He was heading for Frisco first thing tomorrow.   I pictured him brooding at a spar varnished spool table by meshed citronella candles.  

  
  

  "How about meeting somewhere?"  he slurred.   

  
  

  What, me and Bruce together, ALONE?   Now that would take the cake.  Oh, I know; let's make Chelle real jealous so it's a cinch to get back together.  Not!   No way, Jose.  Not at my expense.   If Chelle didn't manage to kill me first, Brett would finish me off.  

  
  

  "Sorry, but I just can't, dude,"  I lied.  "I've got plans."  

  
  

  I don't know what got into me, guilt, too much sugar, or the Devil himself, but I got into an awesome sexual fantasy about Bruce last night after going to bed.   It probably was the influence of the latter, for as soon as I got in my usual position for total masturbation--fully nude, legs up, tampon inserted, pillow tucked behind my fanny, and not so much as a sheet to shield me from the moonlight--Chloe jumped on the bed and walked right over me, brushing my chest with her soft warm fur.   I felt like Liz Taylor in a luxurious mink stole, or an antlered Nordic warrior chick dripping with pelts.   I imagined Bruce showing up here drunk as a skunk, unable to drive.   My parents put him up in the study on the fainting couch just as we did Brett.   Hair still wet from the shower and wearing only my bathrobe and slippers, I stop by his room to check on him, my good friend.   We talk.   Suddenly he grins lasciviously, peers into my eyes, and steals a kiss.  When I start to resist, he pulls me tightly against him, scraping my tender cheek with three days' worth of feral stubble.   He knows I want it; I have all along.   Sensing the least response to his urgent tonguing, he tears my robe open and rubs his slobbery lips all over my heaving chest.   His calloused musicians' hands slip between my smooth thighs.   Finding the hot wetness within, he laughs and spreads my pussy lips apart, squinting down in earnest at the dark bearded vestibule, like a rogue checking the state of my maidenhead.   Then his fingers play a wicked number, simultaneously rubbing me fore and aft until my pelvis arches like a cat getting her spine scratched.   If the pink pearl didn't come out of hiding from this determined onslaught, he'd suck it out as from an oyster.   I'm deep in the spell of lust and can do nothing but lie helpless under his beastly power.  Kissing me feverishly on the mouth again, he positions my body on the couch as if I were a doll created for his pleasure.   I hear his zipper rip as he gets on top of me.   His rather short but thick and turgid cock stabs at my legs, dotting them with spermatic fluid as it fights for a way in.   No longer in control of my senses, I want to give it its will in spite of myself.  I passively tilt my hips just so it hits its mark, thrusting inside me with the slightest exquisite pain until my lubrication comes to the fore.   With no further ado, it commandeers me with quick shallow strokes that match my partner's ragged breathing, faster and faster until we both grunt in an intense gut wrenching climax, like a couple banging away in a Brit movie.   I supply the necessary gush of fluid from a bottle of hand lotion I have ready on the nightstand.   It spurts against my swollen reddened pussy surprising cool, like the real thing.  Oh, happy day.

  • 6:40 pm
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