In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

Continued from Plague Life, Part VI

“We’re all humans, after all, and everybody’s got something a little off somewhere.”
                                                                                Haruki Murakami
                                                                                The Fall of the Roman Empire

Megan slipped gently out of bed leaving Joyce fast asleep still nestled on her side. She pulled on her clothes and just barely resisted the urge to kiss her sleeping lover’s cheek. She padded down the hall and peeked into Tommy’s room where he sprawled on his back, snoring lustily. She tiptoed in to lift the covers up to his neck disturbing him not at all.

At the front door she slipped on her sneakers and set the alarm with a three-tone signal giving her twenty seconds to get out. The time on the keypad was 3:37. Pulling the door silently behind her she stepped out into the foggy predawn for the short walk home.

Too early for the morning birds, an owl hooted forlornly over in the woods somewhere. Still tasting Joyce, Megan glided rather than walked, a light tiptoed gait, like wading in neck deep water propelled by the waves of the evening’s passions. It felt as if years of dreamy fantasies and childhood passions had been consummated save for the thick rustling spot that gnawed at her from right behind the drawstring of her sweatpants.  Like any committed dreamer, her fantasies were many, familiar and always available. If she knew nothing else, she knew how to deal with this titillating ache. She paused at the corner, the fog settling shiny on her skin, to watch three deer-mere shadows in the amber glow of the streetlights-clatter down the asphalt before being swallowed by the night.

She let herself in through the garage and went straight for the powder room stopping only to strip off her sweats and panties, dropping them in the laundry basket. She moved to pull her T-shirt over her head but it smelled of Joyce, so she kept it on. In the powder room she peed then, without turning on a light, went to the kitchen for a glass of water from the tap. She could get ice water directly from a nozzle on the fridge, but it was too slow and Megan, gulping, was suddenly in a hurry to get upstairs.

She ducked into the bathroom at the top of the stairs and snatched the bath brush from the hook in the shower. Almost unable to wait she patted her backside with the cool flat wood to hurry herself along. In her bedroom she plopped face first onto the small mountain of pillows, sheets and blankets that passed for a made bed in these times. Lifting slightly onto her side she gritted her teeth and scrunched her eyes then raised the brush high and brought it down with a loud CRACK in the center of her right bottom cheek. “Yeeowch!” she said lightly, surprising herself with how hard it was. She did it again and a third time in the same spot causing her to wriggle a bit and yip a small “Ouch!”

She grabbed a pillow and stuck it between her legs, squeezing it into place after sliding her fingers over her own swollen wetness moaning at the charge the smallest contact brought. The pillow placed, she rolled onto her belly and swatted her left cheek once then again, rhythmically humping the pillow between swats. All corners of the empty house bore audible witness to what was happening in Megan’s bed. She yelped, then sighed as the spanking waxed and waned and grunted when she directed hard contact to the midpoint of her bottom where her legs joined to form and echo chamber that magnified the force and vibration of the blows. After absorbing a stronger punishment than anyone else had given her, she tossed the brush aside and slipped her fingers into herself.

She moaned loudly as she tickled her attentive clit up to the edge then over. She cried Joyce’s name as she came loudly with complete abandon; a long rapturous orgasm that she knew would set an impossible standard for the one that she shared with Joyce. She didn’t break contact, still rubbing, riding down the backside of the mountain until she collapsed on the bed and breathed, smiling, still smelling the scent of another on her face. She gently slid her hand over the hot, dry skin of her tortured bottom. She mewled at the contact and slowly slipped her moist fingers back between her legs, determined to make the second one last.

Continued here The Summons

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