Busy weekend

Friday

I am at a house party on Friday night. The liquor flows in torrents: beer and wine and substantially stronger spirits. I have more than my share. I converse in giggles. The laughter is unceasing.

Many of my friends are paired up. Jeremy holds my buttocks while we dance. His fingers shuck my skirt up my thighs. He tries to cup my cunt. I displace his hand. I know that he hopes to go home with me. I disappoint him. He sees me making out with some boy I don’t know in the shadows.

Sometime after two, Sol and I sneak into the upstairs bathroom together. I press him against the wall and make an attempt to eat his face. He matches the grip on his neck with powerful fingers that claw at my ass. Loosening his belt, I bring down his pants and tug at the cock. Once I have him erect, I fall to my knees long enough to place a condom. My arms hook around his shoulders as he lifts me onto the vanity. The two of us are lip locked. The khaki skirt bunches at my waist. I push my weight off the sink as he fucks me. My heels kick at the backs of his thighs. He grips my hip and braces my back and thrusts his pelvis out. He moans desperately. His mouth hangs open when orgasm strikes. His face is painted even more deeply with surprise and pleasure when I invert the condom and lap his come.

~

Saturday

My pickup band has its monthly concert on Saturday night. The music is Mozart’s and Haydn’s. An after-party follows the performance. Of course there is plenty to drink. Of course I get plastered.

I depart with another wind player.

To play an articulated passage on the clarinet, the tongue lifts off the reed and back onto it while the fingers remain motionless. The fingers move during the silences, which are enforced by the tongue sustaining pressure on the reed to halt its vibration.

To play legato, so that there is no space between notes, the tonguing is absent. A single breath as the fingers move, and the notes are slurred.

He plies his technique upon my sex.

~

Sunday

“Get on your knees,” he tells me on Sunday afternoon. The time of caresses has passed. This is his voice of authority.

His cock hangs in front of the scrotum. Though I want to reach for it and make him hard, I keep my palms flat on my thighs. The knees wing apart to expose my cunt. I straighten my back in order that my tits protrude.

He takes his wallet from the table, extracts a five pound note, and flings it to the ground. “Are you my whore?” he asks.

The symbolism of the gesture turns me on. I pick up the scrap of paper. “I am your whore,” I concede.

He grabs both of my wrists and brings them over my head and crosses them. My hair falls across my face in a thick curtain. I keep my head pointed submissively floorward as he knots a blindfold around my eyes. The sudden blindness enhances my other senses. I hear the bare feet padding on the carpet around me. I smell his maleness when he positions me, legs together, back hunched into an arch, the spine flaring out. My forearms are on either side of my head. The wrists are still crossed.

He tilts my ass up. Fingers squeeze into my cunt. The entry is tight as my knees are touching. He spins his wrist and thrusts the fingers swiftly in and out. My cunt makes loud sucking noises. I tighten the muscles inside, offering him friction and drag.

“You’re so wet,” he informs needlessly. I know I am dripping. I have been ever since he kissed me at the tube station.

I roll my shoulders, relax and wait. Hands jostle my thighs apart at their apex. The latex of the condom rubs against the bulging labia. I fall forward, breasts flattening over the carpet, when his cock plows into me.