Shopping for Thanksgiving was tough. Not tough because I had to buy lots of food, but tough because I simply didn’t know what to buy. My mom and grandmother corner the cooking market. If I bring one pie, they’ve baked ten. So, I wandered around the grocery store aimlessly, contemplating the dishes I could make and seriously considering just showing up empty handed. I usually took 3/4 of whatever I made home again, after all.

I’ve decided to stop all of this nonsense with J* and the girl next door. I mean, it really is wonderful, but a lot of nonsense too. I don’t like going home at the end of an amazing orgasmic night and lying in an empty bed while the two of them cuddle. I think that it must be terrible lonely to spend your entire life being “the other girl.”

Not that J* has ever treated me like I’m a mistress. We have our secrets, but really, I’m not stealing him away any time soon, and we both know it. What he has with his wife is comfortable love. I’m really just a cat toying with that relationship. Or rather…I think I may be the mouse.

Time to stop being the mouse, right?

As the mouse in a relationship, you’re at another person’s beck and call every moment of every day. And that may be fine if you’re in a BDSM relationship, but in any other sense, it just doesn’t work. I don’t like not knowing where I stand. I don’t like feeling pathetic. I don’t like that J* can call me and I come running, but I don’t dare call him. Nah, being the mouse is not for me. I have to be the cat.

Which is funny, because when I was little, my uncle called me “the cat”. It was my pet name.

Maybe I should get a rubber catsuit. Haha.

In any cause, being the mouse has gotten old. Is it strange that this is what ran through my mind as I was comparing prices at the supermarket? I think about sex too often and have it not often enough.

Masturbation called me to hurry home. Screw the pie crusts and filling. I bought a few cucumbers and jetted out of there. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have better Thanksgiving recipe inspiration.

Hot.

Wet.

Squirming, with my toes curled under.

I bit my lip, not too hard, but just enough to make it hurt a little.

I let the last time I had sex with you flash back though my mind. It’s like a scene from a movie, with you and I in sepia tone with no sound. Just our clenched fists and mouthes-opened faces, like fish suckling for water. Behind me, pounding slowly and deliberately, your face toward the ceiling, worshiping my ass. All in tones of brown.

I squirm some more.

Eyes closed.

Door locked.

Just in case.

I let the first time I had sex with your flash back though my mind. This time, it’s Technicolor, surreal, fast, with a strobe light distorting our bodies. We dance on the floor with everyone else, but the cocoon or your arms, I feel a finger slide up my skirt and push aside my thong in a frenzy. College students back then, we didn’t care who noticed. Not that anyone did. They were too involved with their own butterflies. Dancing, sweating, humping together on to the bumping of an obnoxious base.

That’s it.

That’s the spot.

Should I indulge or should I hold out even longer? Can I hold out? Can I resist touching that spot in my mind of you and I fucking?

And like a trigger, I give in, imagining that it is you.

I’m moaning softly like the night we drank too much of your parent’s sweet red wine and fucked in the refinished basement while they slept upstairs, proud that they could trust us and unaware of the condom you kept in your wallet.

Then I’m screaming like the morning you woke me up with your tongue between my legs, relentless, slurping, licking every drop until my body, still exhausted from dreaming, just quivered all over.

And I’m gushing.

Flowing.

Cumming…cumming all over your memory.

I write about sex. Often. If you’re read this blog habitually (not just because google spat you here today), than you probably write about sex too. And really, I could write a lot more eloquently than I do. But I don’t. Because this is real life people. Real life ain’t all that eloquent.

I do find myself coming back to certain works again and again, though. Why? Because they’re sexy. To me, at least. There are just some words that you can mummer and immediately I’ll feel wet and hot and ready to fuck.

Ok, well maybe not ready to fuck. Yet. But they’re a start.

Here’s my list of the top ten sexiest words. I’ll probably miss some and forget some…but off the top of my head, this is the good shit, right here. Fuck eloquent.

1. Thrust. (easily my favorite)
2. Drip.
3. Lap.
4. Force.
5. Fondle.
6. Grunt.
7. Quiver.
8. Hold.
9. Nipple.
10. Spread.
11. Kiss.
12. Cock.
13. Wet.
14. Gasp.
15. Tongue.

Am I painting a picture for you yet? Pick three words from that list. Any three.

Nipple. Quiver. Gasp. What did you imagine?

Wet. Thrust. Fondle. What did you imagine?

Tongue. Cock. Grunt. What did you imagine?

Like I said, fuck eloquent words. I can paint a picture with Drip. Force. Spread.

…because it can’t be all about the treats. (click on that link to read the first part of this night…but if you don’t have time, let’s just say that the girl next door had just called me while she was fucking her husband to invite me to join in…)

I didn’t knock, and the door wasn’t locked. Which is a good thing, considering that I ran next door wearing nothing but a black thong, a bright red bustier, and my devil horns. I closed the front door carefully behind me, the moans of my neighbor and J* filling my ears and making me drip. Have I mentioned that I love Halloween?

They noticed me as I walked into their bedroom (how could you not?), and I took in the scene before me. Still partially in her costume, the girl next door was positioned on the edge of the bed, her jungle-inspired bottoms yanked savagely to one side and her bra still on, but burst with her bouncing tits, which peeked out from under the cups. Her legs wrapped around him, J* stood naked at the edge of the bed, but still looked very much like Tarzan even without the ridiculous hammock-like costume. His abs were rock-hard and his tanned skin on rivaled by her own caramel-colored legs.

Without pausing in his thrusts, he beckon me to the bed. She gasped with every push into her, the girl next door gasped, taking him into her tight pussy balls deep. His right hand was pressing into her lower torso, holding her steady as he fucked and he used his right hand to undo my top, letting it slip to the floor as I allowed my thong to fall with with them.

“Jump on her face,” he commanded with a smile. I looked at her for approval, but she seemed lost in the fucking motion, her eyes closed and her mouth open.

“Go ahead. She wants it. She wants to taste you tonight.” J* continued fucking and she continued gasping for breath.

I hopped onto the bed and slowly, cautiously straddled her open mouth, facing J*. I began to lowered care, not sure if she knew that I was there, but she reached up and grabbed my thighs to bring me down on her tongue. She licked hungrily, alternating between sucking on my clit and jabbing her tongue into my quivering pussy. I lost myself there, on her face, which seemed to bury itself deeper in me every time J* thrust into her. I looked down and realized that, without knowing it, I was pinching my own nipples, and my moans and screams mixed with hers, howling into the Halloween nights.

I reached down and began playing with her nipples – caressing, pinching, pulling – which caused to to arch her back and lap at my juices even more quickly. J* began to fuck harder and faster, and I saw that he was watching us play with one another. He unwrapped her legs pulled them up as through her feet were in stirrups at the doctors.

“Hold her open for me,” he grunted to me. And I knew exactly what he wanted. He cock was dripping with her juices, and, still on her relentless mouth, I reached down and spread her ass cheeks, using my fingers to play with her asshole. He forced his cock in and she shook below me, stopping her licking to scream in pain and pleasure. He beautiful clit, pierced, was before me and I rubbed it vigorously, imagining that it was my own clit and I was masturbating. It took less than a minute and the girl next door was squirting – spraying J* the bed, and me with her orgasm. She went limp with exhaustion, and I slid off of her wet face.

“Did my little slut cum?” smiled J*. I waited for her to answer, but he wasn’t talking to her. He was talking to me. His little slut. I shook my head no. No, she had kept me on the edge, but I hadn’t let myself cum into her eager mouth.

“We’ll just have to do something about that then, won’t we?” The girl next door’s smile lit up the room and, her cum still running down her legs, she pushed me backwards until I was laying where she was only moments before. She straddled my face as I had done hers and J* began to fuck me from the edge of the bed. And before long, we were both hollowing into the Halloween night yet again.

I love Halloween, but this year I just didn’t have as much time as I would have liked to actually make a half-decent costume. So, I turned to and old stand-by: a red and black outfit and a pair of sparkly devil horns on a headband. I figured it was pretty fitting, seeing as I was single-handedly driving apart my neighbors’ relationship. Happy Halloween.

Anyway…there I was last night handing out candy to the neighborhood kids and hoping that they’d be done soon so I could grab a drink at the bar, when I caught a glimpse of the girl next door also handing out candy. She was dressed in almost nothing (I’m sure the neighborhood moms will be talking about that one…), and her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, the fluffy curls bouncing down to her shoulders. She was wearing a leopard print bra and undies, with a green sarong tied around her waist and fake ivy snaking around her arms. Jane? Which meant that J* must be dressed as…

I gasped as I saw him in the light of the doorway and couldn’t take my eyes off of him as a chorus of children yelled “Trick or Treat!” and grabs handfuls of Milky Ways and Dum-Dums from my outstretch bowl. There he stood, Tarzan, wearing just a (bulging) loin cloth outfit that slung over one shoulder. I instantly felt like turning off my damn porch light and running across the yard to pounce on those six-pack abs. With an outfit like that, I didn’t even car that his wife was watching me stare.

J*’s eyes locked to mine and we both beamed at one another. It has been impossible not to think about J* ever since our brief meeting (aka janitor’s closet fuck) at the football game, but I was still nervous about being too friendly with his wife around. In the beginning, the three of us got along well, but it was she who called the shots. The girl next door invited me over for threesomes, held me on the edge until commanding me to cum, and watched as J* used every hole on my body before cumming on my face. But she knew. She knew that I had fallen for her husband, and that I kept coming back because I was in love (well, love is strong…in lust) with J*, not because I enjoyed time with both of them. And when she began to suspect that I was pursuing him, she closed me out of her life.

He had not been able to close me out of his. Oh, and he tried, but nevertheless, there we were, fucking at the football game, which was clearly against the rules of their marriage. Threesomes were fine. Affairs were not. J* was officially cheating.

And oh, I love that power. The girl next door is raw beauty, driven, successful, eloquent. She’s what I’m not. But, she no longer had a successful relationship. I felt better than her.

Last night, I saw her eyes narrow a bit, watching her husband look at me. I walked back inside and turned my lights off at around 10. A few minutes later, the phone rang. It was her, and she was panting, out of breath, moaning.

“Roooori, darling. Uhhhhh…what are you doing?” she gasped.

J* was fucking her. He was fucking her and she called me.

“Nothing.” I replied.

“Oohhh, fuck, yes. Ohh…Rori, can you come over? FUCK! Ah! Ah! The door’s open. Come over, darling, we miss you.”

Click.

Until that moment, my night had been all about the treats. Now it was time for some tricks.

To be continued…