The Broken Wife: II by P.t. Pelkin

Author:P.t. Pelkin [Pelkin, P.t.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2016-03-20T06:00:00+00:00

Ricky breathed, deeply. The frozen image on his screen burning into his memory. The man, his pants pooled down around his ankles. His shirt tail hanging low. The skinny, hairy legs. His wife’s naked thighs, knees. Spread open wide for him. He cannot see the boy’s face, yet knows well what it will look like. Doesn’t matter, he can see hers.

She’s looking up at him, with her deep brown eyes, wide open. They glisten. They will haunt him. Mesmerizing. Holding such want it’s almost impossible to bear. Her face, held tight between the flesh of her upper arms, holds an expression of horrible suffering, or immeasurable joy. Her bottom lip folded under, clinched between her teeth.

She’s close to the edge. As is her lover, or with him, on the verge of slipping over.

Ricky rubbed the crotch of his pants, the thinnest of wetness there, unsettling, as he grabbed hold of the corners of his desk, clinched tight the muscles of his groin. Pulsing, throbbing. Not even aware till this moment he has been rocking back and forth. The tightness below growing, the feeling quickening. Moving, thickening. He closes his eyes. Tries desperately to picture Ellie Jenkins.

She, sitting at her table. Pouring him a glass of milk. The color of her eyes, the scent of her perfume. The want. The need. Coming.

Ricky pushed away. From the desk, from the edge. His chair teeters back, he counter-balances forward, striking his knees on the desk drawer. The bulge below pleading, throbbing for release. “What the …?” he silently whispers, as his mind races, his heart thumps madly inside his chest. His lips full, his hips tight. The sensation of falling behind, being late, growing. He clinches down. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare breathe. Certain if he does either, he will not be able to stop what happens next.

He waits. He breathes in. Holds. Then slowly releases. A lessening, a slowing. He looks down at the traitor, the betrayer throbbing in his pants. The feeling ebbs, the tide wanes. He pulls back. Can physically feel himself shrinking.

“What the hell?” he asks.

You almost came, the voice, sounding as frightened as he feels. Almost? He might have.

Ricky pulled himself up to standing, held till his knees regained strength, then walked out and into their kitchen. Turned on the cold water, let it run a bit before taking up his glass. Fills it as his hips press against the countertop, flattening his swollen genitals as they do. Takes a drink. Begins to grind himself against the hardness. Refills the glass. Moves in even tighter. Pressing. Pours out the water. Feels himself once more moving closer. Thickening. He quickly refills the glass, then without a next thought, dumps it over his head.

He almost screams. May have squeaked, a little. For the result’s instant. His one sane thought to grab the towel from the fridge door, stop the flow down his back. Cold, way colder then tap water has any right to be. But for a second he forgets all about pressure, pleasure.

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