Susannah Indigo: Readerotica vol.1

I must have sighed. Lois whispered in my ear, "One more, and you are mine."

Her fingernails scraped over my chest, down my belly. I felt her fingers move around my balls, pulling down gently but firmly. When she tied the final scarf there, my cock rose like a balloon filled rapidly with helium.

"You're mine now Clarke, until you come. And that won't happen for a long time yet."

Her voice was in front of me now. "Open wide, Clarke."

I did, and my mouth was filled with the satin-smooth warmth of her breast. She pushed into me until I was overcome by her flesh. It became difficult to breathe, as she held fast to the back of my head with one hand, and twisted my nipple with the other. But it was wonderful. My cock was so hard now that it throbbed in time with my pulse.

"Much better," Lois purred. "Now let's see if you're a good fit."

She withdrew her breast, allowing me breathe but gaping blindly for more flesh to suckle. Effortlessly, Lois pushed me onto my side, then rolled me onto my back, trapping my arms beneath me.

I smelled her cunt as she lowered herself to my mouth, and then I tasted it. Tangy. Salty. Like the earth and the sea combined. Without waiting for her command, I started to lick. Her thighs tightened against my cheeks. Her moans reached my ears as tremors rather than sounds, each one exciting me more. Just as my tongue began to tire, she moved down my body and took a firm grip on my cock. "Is it a bird? Is it a plane?" Lois murmured, stroking my swollen flesh with each question. "No! It's Supercock!" she proclaimed, lowering herself onto me at that instant.

Her muscles were a surprise, holding as tightly as a handshake, but slick and hot. Lois rode me and rode me, and then rode me some more. She was relentless, and I was her flesh dildo, her sex toy. And I loved it.

As she felt her orgasm approach, she released the scarf that bound my testicles. My cock erupted. I found myself yelling "YEEEEEEEE GODDDDDDS." I had never come so forcefully before. Never.

Lois pulled off the blindfold and the light hurt my eyes. When I finally was able to look at her, she smiled down at me, pink and sweaty.

"Well" she said. "Do you still want to leave?"

"It would be rude to leave now," I responded. "I've only just come."

After two days of room-service and continuous sex, I'm exhausted but happy. Lois is just getting her second wind. I'm certain that neither of us will be going to the conference.

Sorry, I'll have to go now. I can hear Lois moving around, getting out of the bed. And any minute now, she will tell me to do exactly what I’ve always wanted to do.

A parking space up front! A good omen, Martha thought. She got out of her car, locked it carefully — she'd been wearing gloves for so long now that handling car keys was nothing — and headed into the shop to see what her sex life was about to be like.

There's nothing like a thrift store to really depress a person. A room full of castoffs, once-treasured items condemned to collect dust because they were scratched, out of style, or just not as treasured anymore. Everything here came with baggage. Everything here was used, passed on, handed down. Everything here had a history, which was good, since that's why Martha was here.

It wasn't crowded today; that made things easier. She grabbed a shopping basket, her attention on the rack at the far end of the store where the lingerie was. A large woman was over there, sifting through the hosiery and underwear bin. Martha shuddered. How could anyone buy second-hand panties? Didn't she know where they'd been? Martha certainly did, better than most people.

The woman was living a dream anyway, one where she was a size 4. She passed over clothing that might actually fit to grab undies that would barely stretch over a supermodel. Martha smiled to herself. Any minute now she'll get fed up and…

The woman left. After glancing around to see where everybody was, Martha meandered in a purely coincidental path that led her directly to the lingerie.

The rack was full; they must have just gotten new stuff. She took a deep breath at all the possibilities. Too many weekends she had come in to see the same threadbare rags hanging in the same places: pathetic teddies from discount stores, flimsy robes with suspicious rips, that sort of thing. Nothing she'd be interested in. But this looked like a collection of quality things, and she knew without looking that the prices would reflect it. That was okay. Martha got a lot more out of these garments than anyone would think. She looked around a final time — no one was paying attention — and pulled out a sheer silk nightie that had surely never seen the inside of a mall. She carefully pulled off her glove and brushed a hand against it.. red driving thrust and purple-black fuck and biting to taste his rich blood as he attacked, pounding and splitting her with his cock.

She yanked her hand away. A bit too rough, she thought, shaking. She always had stomach trouble after one of those, and a tendency to shy away from men. More than usual. Just her fault for being too eager — she should have known by now not to grab. She began lightly touching the next few dainties, enough to get the barest hint of each one without losing herself.

Martha had looked the word up after her life had exploded: what happened to her was called psychometry — the ability to touch something and "read" its history. Thank God it only happened when she touched something with her bare hands — otherwise she'd have gone insane the first year. It had first appeared in high school, when she got in a friend's new (used) car and suddenly found herself in the midst of someone else's maelstrom of flame and death. She'd screamed and the vision had stopped cold, but the memory remained.

Years of therapy followed. She was careful not to reveal her psychic ability. She knew what happened to people with…odd…abilities.

Then came years of loneliness, of thick, safe layers between her and the world. A few abortive relationships taught her that it's not good to know everything about your loved one. How could she live with a person when every time she picked up something she became them, thought their thoughts, knew their secrets?

She wore gloves every second she was out of her apartment, and she was careful never to touch anything she had owned for less than a year, in case it carried memories of its manufacture, or some horrible disaster that happened in the store while it was on the shelf.

One night, depressed and lonely, she had been doing her laundry in the basement of her apartment building when the young blonde girl from the apartment next to hers came in with her own basket. Lucy, Martha knew, was a college girl with a cat and a boyfriend and a red Miata. Martha kept her eyes down, embarrassed. Many a night she had heard the thumping and gasping from next door; she considered her bitter envy inappropriate.

Lucy dumped her clothes on the wooden counter and started separating them, only to realize she'd forgotten her change. Martha agreed to watch her pile and she dashed upstairs, all bounces and shining golden hair. On top of Lucy's laundry was a crumpled nightgown.

Martha lifted the nightie. It was a sheer thing, pink and lace-trimmed and entirely useless for modesty or sleep. Martha, flannel to the depths of her soul, had never worn anything remotely like it in her life.

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she had slipped off her glove and grasped the nightie.

When the girl came back down with a Pringles can half full of quarters, Martha was just finishing her load. Lucy never noticed the missing nightie or the way Martha's face glowed, or how Martha trembled as she hurried upstairs with a basket full of wet laundry.