“More please, fuck me!”

Forward motion equals knees even closer to ears.

“I need to…oh ga—!”

Full breath, harder to achieve.

“I neeed…” voice gone.

…To receive his sexual energy, his voluminous ejaculate.

Wednesday, floating day off. Mind floating.

The depth of his enormous member mattered more than his moderate good looks and relatively unintelligent personality. He was a cock, a very big cock, and that was why she lay back and wantonly spread.

Right hand slipped between despite her body bouncing off of the bed with each loud animalistic thrust.

Ahhh…Joyously prepared clitoris found and pushed and pulled in circles.

She knew once her orgasm hit that the cock would not be long after. It never was. All force, no finesse.

She gets there. “I’m cumming!” Honesty painted with overacting.

He never suspected that her manicure was the catalyst, not his prowess.

“Yes, Bitch! Cum on my big-ass cock!”

She had to ignore these moments of masculine outrageousness. Yes…what always followed sent her to another plane of existence.

It’s bone hard! Feel the glans flaring; testicles naturally lifting, rigid spine, every muscle flexing at the same time. He is cock.

Eruptions occurred deep inside, flooding her cervix and extending her orgasm.

She knew herself; she needed that finger-trigger to start the wave circulation of peak to drop to peak to drop…large enough to carry pro surfers.

After a minute of moderate deflation, he abruptly yanked out and flopped, sweating, a whistle descending in admiration.

She lay panting, sweaty (mostly his), and satisfied as her long legs lowered. Her pelvis would be very sore for a couple of days. Thank the whomever that her husband was out of town until the first of the month.

“Fuck, bitch! You take me better’n any cunt I’ve ever fucked.”

Awful…He means it as a compliment.

His version of dirty talk was crass and uncreative. Another overlook for what he gave. It was the greasy paper that wrapped around the delicious steak sandwich.

“Thank you, Rod.” She almost always had bile (sometimes real, sometimes symbolic) rise up her esophagus whenever she thanked him. Early on, he had insisted. And once again…the payoff…

“Fuck, yeah!”

He stood and headed into the en suite that she shared with her husband. He emptied his bladder and took a very brief shower.

Did he ever wash anything, because he rarely smelled better when he came back? Strutting into the room, his enormous member wobbled from side to side. He dressed himself and stared at her with a satisfied sneer.

“Lemme know when yer useless man goes out a town again. You’re a tight fuck, MILFY!”

She didn’t speak. He was gone in minutes.

His sensual effects hung like accusations. At least he was using the mints she insisted on.

Her own cleanup was relatively easy. She actually did wash herself. The stale cigarettes, sweat and bad truck stop cologne needed to disappear in the swirl of Ouidad suds. The sting-tingle in her pussy, however, could stay as long as it wanted.

Necessity had delivered him. They had met him in a real-life porn script. He was the muscular mechanic that fixed her car once when her husband/pilot was on a three-weeker. He flirted and she enjoyed his bad boy tattoos. He made sure to flex his 25-year-old bulge as a garish neon sign, shaped like an arrow.

Two not-fast-enough days later, she was on all fours in her living room as he mercilessly pounded her from behind. He called her MILF, even though she had no children. He probably didn’t know the meaning. She was thirty-eight; she took it as the only compliment he was capable of forming.

The tall, shapely, curly-headed brunette intellectual worked as a research fellow in a university lab twenty-three minutes from her home. A masters in chemistry, a doctorate in molecular biology, and a grant from several Pharmaceutical Corporations, were tools to develop chronic autoimmune treatments. She was very proud of the work.

Always dancing between solitude and isolation, endorphins only did so much. Isolation got a bad rap. It was an excellent lab partner.

Her husband was a commercial pilot who flew cargo planes around the world from different American hubs. He read a lot, was very funny, and was a wonderful lover. His most charming trait was his absence; 108 days last year, and 97 the year before. It was only August, yet this year‘s tally was already 85. She imagined it would double before the end of the holidays.

They connected immediately at a mutual friend’s wedding, relegated to the designated singles table. They danced, and spent the night in his hotel room not getting much sleep. They spent the next one in hers, still not sleeping. He was off-center, handsome with striking green eyes.

Before committing to their relationship, she made it clear that her work was too important to be distracted by raising a family. He agreed that his own work would make it nearly impossible to form the bonds necessary for a good paternal connection. Maybe even a healthy marriage.

They were both keyed into the necessity of working alone.

Isolation, this is solitude. I think you will like each other.

Perhaps that’s why their absences never seemed to damage. No children = perfectly logical.

There was just one element she hadn’t factored in: the joy of trying to procreate. It really messed up the findings. Breed kink aside, the possibility of fertility was siren-like.

“Forced single” stints gained a lot of attention early on in the married portion of her career. It was that bizarre phenomenon in that wearing a ring suddenly made you more attractive. Looser clothes under her lab coat were meant to dissuade the unwanted glances, touches, flat out invitations.

She started working out more at home. Trips to the gym in tight pants and a sports bra did nothing to keep away the horny buggers she disdained in her head.

That led to her own horniness beyond the capability of her wand and rabbit.

Grad students and TAs had moth-fluttered at her heat, but she’d only indulged twice over the last seven years of her marriage. (Twice meaning seven actual sexual encounters with two different people. Math never lies.)

“It’s not fair to either of us to keep it a secret,” she confessed to pilot hub. She had explained both relationships, and he had agreed to forgive her, reminding her that he knew women all around the world that he would regularly “visit.” She had nodded, knowing that he had sex with women quite often while he was gone. She knew when she enjoyed his skillset the night that they met.

He went on to encourage her to not isolate. Why shouldn’t she have fun as well? His acceptance made her feel even more sexy while feeling more alone than ever. It felt off, unsettled, tilted; what worked the best to fuel her furnace of fornication.

“It’s only unfair if it’s inequitable,” he had assured her after a particularly athletic homecumming. “And it’s a bit of a turn on knowing somebody’s enjoying your sexy body.”

The pros and cons of her pursuing more sex partners soon shown on her tablet. She decided the fewer people she slept with would increase want.

Want fuels distraction.

Was one long term better? Was she over analyzing with the possibility of exploding the samples?

Why the fuck was she even married?

A desire to preserve some type of internal reputation surfaced. “The man can be a stud with dozens of women, but she’s a slut with dozens of men.”

Then she met Rod, the mechanic (yes, his real name. There was a tattoo of confirmation on his left arm: “THE ROD”).

At introduction, her eyes had rolled literally and intellectually. Until she actually saw what he was carrying, as charming vernacular lends. She still cannot identify what specifically made her giggle like an undergrad, and even brush his arm. Maybe she just liked flipping her curly hair from side to side.

Perhaps it was a hormonal spike, or scientific curiosity. Perhaps it was her body, begging her to find something to relieve chronic, sexual longing.

It was hard to not notice him pushing his hips slightly forward to show just how much serpent was nesting inside those jeans.

When she returned three days later in an impractical short skirt, he offered a test drive to show her that everything was fixed. That’s how they ended up in her living room with her screaming repeatedly as a cascade of Rod-given orgasms nearly made her pass out.

During, after, and subsequently, she was very irritated that she had to admit that size did matter, at least in her case.

You are losing all sense of your feminism. You are a slutty bitch.

After a month involving three meetings and countless fucks, she came to a realization. This man was nothing but a sex toy in the flesh. The Rod was surprisingly not a rushed lover. He was crude, with a horrendous vocabulary, yet there was something about how he rearranged her insides that made her desperate for two or three more goes before he left each time.

She made herself two rules. He would never stay overnight. And they would never socialize outside of her bedroom (which extended to include the kitchen counter, the hood of her car in the garage, and several places in the living room).

These two were on top of their agreement to be regularly tested. “The Rod needs a variety of pussy.” She needed to stay healthy.

She thought about explaining the rules so he wouldn’t expect more. But after the fifth glorious, earthshaking session, she realized he had no desire beyond explosive orgasms.

Hmm, sexually satisfied. Still alone.

***

The next time they met, her curiosity decided to take a risk and did something her tablet-orientation had not planned in the least. She asked him a question.

“Do you think what we’re doing is wrong?”

The poor guy looked like someone had shot him with a freeze ray. His eyes were wide, his mouth was open, and his hand was mid stroke on his massive member. He was in the middle of preparing to “conquer her top side” as he liked to call it. He simply grunted out a noise that sounded like a question to her question.

“Whuhuh?”

“I know nothing about your personal life and I honestly don’t want to. But you know for a fact that I’m married, and that my husband isn’t around to satisfy me. In fact, you love to mention it quite often when we are fucking. It gives you a sense of superiority and feeds into the classic, masculine, militant psyche that encourages you to, as you say, conquer.”

Silence…

“Oookay…”

“I’m just wondering if you think it’s wrong that I am letting you fuck me. And that you are using another man’s wife.”

The pause was welcome. She had no idea why she was asking. Was it for internal justification? Was it guilt finally being allowed to take a seat at the table? Or was it scientific curiosity?

She failed to realize it was born of the fact that she had no one else to talk to about this. Not even a “bestie.”

The Rod actually had a moment where she could see his wheels were turning. He looked around the room, as if trying to find someone’s exam to copy off of.

“I think we fuck good and ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

“Do you think I’m being unfair to my husband?”

He looked like his brain hurt. “What the fuh— I don’t really give a shit. You spread yer legs afore I even asked for it. But I do think yer bein’ awful unfair to this here cock. Now, do you want The Rod or dontcha?”

She half closed her eyes, scolding herself for expecting more. He did exactly what he was supposed to do in this moment, he acted like a caveman.

She answered by rolling over on her hands and knees and arching her back, so her succulently round, unblemished ass stuck nearly straight in the air. She knew just how wide to open her legs to not only get the best possible penetration, but to give him a vision to conquer.

“Now yer sayin’ somethin’ I wanna hear!”

She came three seconds after he plunged in and lost count of how many she had before he plunged deeper than she ever thought he’d get.

This doesn’t solve loneliness, it puts it off until next week’s homecumming itinerary.

Not an affair…not unfair. Yet both.

“Oh FUuuck!” It felt like he had actually opened her cervix.

***

The morning that pilot hub was due to return, staring out the kitchen window was the apparent best use of her waiting. Her coffee wondered why they were no longer sharing happy mornings.

Something was morphing. This absence hadn’t even been very long. She had endured 51 days, 11:27 hours without him once three years ago. She knew what to do when she felt lonely back then. None of those recreations and distractions satisfied anymore. All that mattered was The Rod and the orgasms it gave her.

Her phone buzzed… the lab… she was late… there were results only she could…

“I am alone…” It was more of a realization than a statement. Not even a question. It almost made her laugh.

Still…the sound of the garage door going up made her heart skip a beat and her well used sex stretch for another marathon.

Thank you for reading. If you liked it, please hit the heart. If you really liked it, go clean up, and then hit the star.

As always, please leave a comment. I try to respond to them all.

Love who you need, when you need, Matt