“What’s on your mind?”
The vertical line strobes repeatedly demanding my response; the vast empty whiteness of the digitalised box awaiting the dancing of my fingers across the soft receptive keyboard and the expression of the jumble of thoughts pressing at my mind. But, what to say? What to communicate? What to share with the assorted collection of friends, acquaintances and “God knows whos”? What is on my mind?
My eyes flit to the top right as another important update crawls itself onto the screen. “Helen Buckley commented on her own post …”
And another. “Sally Doyle was tagged at Pizza Express with …”
Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera …
Yadda, yadda, yadda …
Noise, noise, noise …
Black cursor; white box; calling, teasing and demanding my contribution. “What’s on your mind?”
Wine! Wine is on my mind. The alluring soft pink glow of some mass produced white grenache full of fruit and flavour and aroma and alcohol. Yes, wine is definitely on my mind and, more importantly, is in my glass sitting enticingly alongside my impatient laptop. It is an invitation I have no intention of declining.
Perhaps that could be my status update: “Hi world, just about to demolish a bottle of cheap, pink plonk … gosh, I’ve earned it”. Or the alternative: “Hi world, have taken up smoking because life’s too long.” Or: “My tiny world of happiness imploded spectacularly at 3.17pm and now I am going to drink and smoke myself into an early grave”. “Becky Astle updated her cover photo.” “What’s on your mind?”
It had been one of those moments of déjà vu or premonition or both. I’d known that the phone was going to make its silly text noise before it happened; was sitting looking at my handbag on the passenger seat patiently waiting for it; knew instantly that it was from him even though there was no sensible reason for him to be texting me at 3.17 on a Thursday afternoon; and, even worse, I knew exactly what it was going to say.
I had known four weeks earlier when; as he leant across her seated, upright, professional form; his fingertips had somehow contrived to graze the passively waiting skin of her wrist; as his eyes had failed to resist the twin enticements of her bounteous soft bosom as it sat squashed, captured and upthrust in her scoop necked, fitted top; as his vision lingered with barely concealed lust on the maddeningly full pouting redness of her perfectly painted lips; and when the instructive words that fell from his mouth in barely audible whispers caused her eyes to glitter and delicate flushing to play about her pure un-innocent flesh.
I knew then; knew on the day I had met him at the office so that we might lunch together. The day I had joined him so we might celebrate the anniversary of those minutes when I had stood beside him, clad in white, a proud, petite figure shivering nervously, surrounded by the warmly beating hearts of friends and family and the cold colossal architraves of Norman power, bathed in a rainbow of colours from the sunlight stained glass windows before me. I had meant the promises I breathed that day and he had filled that sanctified place with lies. “Emily Wilson won against Dave on SongPop.” “What’s on your mind?”
My fingers tremble slightly as I pull a white and tan death stick from its packet. The lighter is a struggle; the harsh metal cogwheel rough against my thumb and the whole apparatus filled with flint sparks and gaseous emissions that somehow refuse to produce a flame. Frustrated, I drain the half full glass of wine, clink the bottle neck against the waiting rim and watch the satisfying glug of pink liquid filling empty space. Then, as if it only required a full glass of wine to accompany it, the lighter springs into life and I drag abusive smoke deep into my lungs. “Charlotte Howson commented on Alison Farrar’s status “have a great time”. “What’s on my mind?”
I don’t want to be me, I want to be her. I don’t want to be small and dowdy and forgotten. I don’t want to be “her indoors”, shuffling around in tunic tops and A-line skirts, baking endless cakes for “good causes”, popping round for coffee and chatter about houses, gardens, and “how wonderfully Nathan is doing at his new school”. I want to be tall and elegant with platinum blond hair falling about my shoulders. I want to be the Jean Harlow of his office; foundation, powder, eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow and lipstick all perfectly combining to display the charm of my youth. I want to sit erect with my carefully manicured nails alternating between keyboard and phone as calmly and authoritatively I seduce the world to crawl before my hosiery sheathed, heel clad feet in idolising infatuation. I want luminous skin that glows heated and confident beneath form fitting cloth; to stand, hands running erotically down the curvature of my hips as his salivating mouth dribbles his lustful need in an ever expanding pool of desire atop his desk. I want to bend from the waist so he can admire the rounded perfection of my buttocks. I want to take his face and press it into the full cup of my breasts so that his tongue can lap at the intoxicating coating of perfume that I have so carefully placed there simply for his delight. I want to be her so that I am not me. I want to be her so that I can be his real life, flesh and blood sexual fantasy. I want to be her so that I can reclaim my husband, may press his cheek to my throbbing breast and know that I am his. “Debs Hart added a new photo to the album Mobile Uploads” “What’s on your mind?”
Tears can be pretty; wetted cheeks glistening in the half light of evening, lifting aging dulled skin in a shimmering picture of helplessness. But he can’t see them; can’t admire them; can’t take one of his large fingers and run it up my face to collect the moisture of my distress; can’t sooth my sobbing form with soft words and tender caresses; can’t slowly return an escaped strand of hair back behind my ear; can’t press fingers beneath my chin so that I might raise my pooling salted eyes to his clear incisive blue irises in eternal adoration; can’t lower his lips to mine; can’t push my mouth open so his artful tongue may dance about my panting needy mouth; can’t smoother me with his body and encircle me with his arms; can’t hold heated and flushed and desperate me against his flesh so that my world may be made whole once more. Can’t! Can’t! Can’t! “Josh Bean was tagged in Rosy Clark’s photo” “What’s on your mind?” “Sorry darling, I’ve got to work late tonight. Henderson’s want changes to the proposal by tomorrow. Don’t know what time I’ll be back x”
One kiss; one solitary, lousy, digital kiss, and how many is she getting right now? Right this minute? How many has she enjoyed since they cocooned themselves in that office; that den of iniquity; that temple of lust and deceit? How many times has his lying, adulterous lips caressed her soft flesh? How often has she quivered beneath his touch and arched her body so that he may attend to her better? When did she release her breasts from their lace bondage and pull his face to her taut, youthful flesh so that he may smother it with tantalising touches of his tongue before swooping down to pull that stiff, throbbing nipple into his gloriously attentive mouth? “What’s on your mind?”
Did she return the favour? Scrambling at his trousers; eager fingers flustered as they battled with belt and zipper before revealing him, my husband, in all his ravenously erect glory. Did she fall to her knees and lap her way up his thickly haired inner-thighs; her hands cupping his clenched muscular buttocks; teasing at his flesh as he moaned his desire into that sterile, utilitarian office space? Did she suck those heated bollocks into her soaked mouth; ruining her perfect lipstick as she suckled hungrily on their soft squishy forms; hand stroking its way between his tight arse cheeks; brightly varnished nail teasing at his anus as his hips started to thrust and his resplendent cock smacked against her perfect platinum coiffure? “What’s on your mind?”
Dribble on her chin; filling her mouth with his unique flavour as she directs him with probing finger into her; as, eventually, slender fingers encircle that hard, throbbing cock; nails teasing across his open slit, gathering his precum to smear across her cheek as she slurps greedily; as he moans in ecstatic delight; as she takes him in her palm and caresses his twitching length beneath her adroit digits; as she squeezes, scratches and pinches in random acts of abuse so that his ragged breath catches.
“What’s on your mind?”
Her flattened tongue sliding up his engorged length, full bottom lips trailing behind, enrapt of every stiff, throbbing muscle and every expanded vein as they pump his thick blood through his cock for her pleasure. Lipstick smeared lips descending about his smooth, purple tinged helmet; mouth pulled wide as her tongue darts forward; as her soaked mouth closes about him; as she presses her nose down into the manicured glory of his pubic garden; as the fine hairs along his betrothed dick tantalise her mouth; as its majestically engorged head thrusts at the entrance to her throat; as she gags and slurps and suckles, head rising and descending in a spiralling ascent of fellating desire; as he stands, buttocks squeezed, thighs trembling; as his thick, globular, creamy lust climbs that captured shaft. “What’s on your mind?”
She’s teasing him; her fingers busy between her widespread thighs; sneaking beneath sodden lace panties; nails dragging their way between swollen, soaked lips; caressing their way across her own wonderfully stiff nub; her own pleasure quivering amongst the clenched muscles of her stomach; panting and mewing as she suckles him whole; as she slams stiff digits between her glistening petals; as she drives herself onto him with insistent, needy fingers; as saliva drips from her chin to splatter atop her full, bouncing, triumphant breasts and her juices escape her splayed, filled and desperate pussy to coat the smooth skin of her taut thighs. “What’s on your mind?”
I need to be there pressed alongside her; cheek to cheek; feeling her skin stroke along mine as she sucks her way down his saliva sheened cock; my lips kissing at the juncture of his thighs and pubis, every trembling sensation reverberating through my own finger skewered flesh as curled digits endlessly prod at my pulsing pink wetness, aching and desperate for release. I need to join her, to join him, as they race, helter-skelter, towards that orgasmic ledge; hanging precariously by the fingertips of my sanity as my body spasms uncontrollably; as before my flickering eyelashes, alongside my flushed cheeks, I feel them pause, tense, expectant, elated in that final second of sensation before pleasure consumes them utterly. “What’s on your mind?”
Heated, burning flesh; cascading pleasure; him twitching; her throat gulping as he releases cloying, salted cum into her deserving succulent mouth; as she moans her own ecstatic release; as I gasp lost in the pleasure of my perfect, knowledgeable fingers; as cumming, lost and complete, she takes my face in her hands; presses her lips to mine; forces her cum coated tongue into my wine soaked and rancid, cigarette flavoured mouth and shares the spoils of my husband’s adulterous deceit with masturbating, neglected me. “Jem Sykes shared his own photo.”
I don’t care. “Charles Russell likes Clare Dyson’s photo.”
I don’t care. “Imogen Webb and Sally Wadds are now friends”
I don’t, don’t, don’t care. “What’s on your mind?”
Slowly, languidly, half-drunk and sated, my cum drenched fingers flit their sticky way across the keyboard … “I will reclaim what is rightfully mine!”
Thank you for reading. I do hope you enjoyed my little tale and if you wish to comment or drop me a message then please do so. I really do appreciate it.
Humbly yours ...
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