It was a lazy feeling, this melting of my stiff and aching muscles into the cushions of the chair. I stretched my legs out in front of me, propping them on the seat of another and felt each part of me settle into place, reminding me of how badly I needed a massage. I lingered on the thought for a moment, letting my high take me to a visceral place where a stranger's hands kneaded into my flesh, skillfully digging into tired shoulders, working through months of lifting and bending and twisting that had left me knotted and tense. I could suddenly feel each pressure into my skin.
The soft buzz of the fan played like smooth jazz in the distance of my ears, and I let the heat of July sink into my body as I sipped crisp cold water from a glass covered in polka dots and let the perspiration drip in cool rivulets to my bare arm. The soft cotton of the wrap I had tied around me in a halter teased my upper thigh as I crossed my legs. Memories of last night's activities flooded my vision, and I felt a familiar heat creep up between my legs. The moisture in the air had me swimming, and the hot summer sun crept through the window, unable to reach me with its rays, but still affecting me in ways that should have made me blush but didn't. It didn't take much to turn me on these days, and I was enjoying the soft hands of ecstasy gliding over me, leaving me tingling. The bong hits I had taken earlier were definitely doing their job. I was perfectly content ... warm, fuzzy ... all the things you should feel from a very good high, and this one was damn near perfect.I leaned my head all the way back and closed my eyes, slowly grazing my fingertips up my newly shaven legs. I would eventually retire behind a closed door where I could explore deeper with these fingers, but for now I was delaying on purpose, teasing myself, enjoying each pull from within, imagining the time and care I would take in bringing myself to orgasm. A brief flash of tongue flicking light and swift came running, dancing through my brain. Each time I came made the next time that much easier. I had read once that some women can make themselves come simply by imagining it, but I enjoyed feeling myself, experimenting with sensations, unraveling the mysteries of what made me tick, only to wait for the hour mark when the cuckoo came flying out of the clock.
My head swimming, I briefly wondered why we hadn't made love on this chair last night. I felt like a housewife from the '40s sitting in it, staring at my cruiser, the fan, and my cotton wrap. The only thing missing was a martini, but I didn't trust myself to have only one, and I didn't like to work drunk, which was my destination in not so many hours.
My head was running rampant now, fresh memories of touching and kissing and sweat mingled with the promises of what I was about to do to myself. Slick bodies gliding over one another, grabbing and pushing and colliding ... he was better each time I was with him. He'd come a long way since that first time in his tiny apartment, jacked on cocaine and me not wanting to be there at all. His attempts at pleasing me had been painfully orchestrated, and I was too shy to conduct. That was four years behind us, and we'd both perfected the piece. He took my directions well, and he was proud when I came for him.
I could feel my buzz slipping a little and declared it a perfect time to find that closed door. I would have moved, but I was momentarily entranced by the lines running through my palm. Was that a tiny cut? I needed more water. And another hit. I needed to touch myself before I lost interest, along with my high.
Three more tokes and I was up again, cotton hiked up to my hips, nothing underneath. The anticipation was building again, fire smoldering in quiet places. There was no fan in this room, and the air stuck to me with brilliant effectiveness, swallowing me whole as I lay there, still stalling on touching myself, building on the heat. I rolled to my back and spread my legs, feeling the air hit where they had been touching, urging to reveal their secrets.
I gave in.
