I sent my lover a text message: Sitting in the sun, the breeze tickling my bare mound under my skirt.
He responded with: Naughty girl.
I continued to flirt with him throughout the day, and by the end of it I was wet and ready for a wild romp.
Celebration dinner? I sent, hoping for a romantic evening with an orgasmic climax.
Conference call with India at 8, he responded.
Dinner at home then. I pretended to be disappointed, but I wasn't. It meant we could get down to the business of scratching the itch that had been bothering me all day.
Ok. How about I make a nice dinner, pour some wine, and we watch some of the inaguration coverage, I typed into my iPhone.
Sounds perfect, he responded, making me squirm. I am sensitized to the word 'perfect' after repeated exposure to a hypnosis session called Perfect Orgasm.
At home I put a chicken and rice casserole in the oven, followed shortly by cored apples stuffed with a mixure of pecans, brown sugar, and mascarpone. A 2005 Eberle Muscat Canelli put into the refrigerator to chill, a lovely wine sweet enough for his palate but less cloyingly sweet than most Muscats, and thus drinkable by me. I retired upstairs and drew a bath for myself. It was delicious, and the bath oils made shaving easy.
Towel-draped and turbaned, I opened a drawer looking for an ultra-rich moisturizing creme for my pruned hands and feet. What I found was a silicon butt plug that I'd forgotten. Shiny and blue, the same colour of blue as my recently-painted toes, it cried out to be used, filling my mind with naughty images and sensations. Mmmmm.
I dressed in a simple blouse and skirt, with black satin panties underneath, and beneath them, the round base of the plug parting my buttocks, making me hyper-aware of my ass.
Dinner is in the oven. I am freshly shaved. And I've got a plug in. I typed into my iPhone.
I'll be home soon. It was nearly an instantaneous response. I grinned.
I lighted candles, dished up dinner, set the apples out to cool, poured the wine, tuned the TV in to the Inaugural festivities coverage, and stretched out on the couch to wait, bare feet pointed toward the door. When he walked through it, I got carefully to my feet. Sitting up put pressure on the plug, making me shiver. He slipped his arms around me and gave me a big hug, then let his hand travel down to my ass. His fingers sought and found the base of the plug and he gave a good push. I gasped, then moaned.
"What have we here?" His voice was deep and amused in my ear, his breath fanning my neck.
I squirmed and leaned into him.
"I don't know what you are talking about." I lied.
He pressed harder, arching my hips into him. He took advantage of my imbalance and guided me backwards, onto the floor. Leaning over for a kiss, he undid his fly with one hand and pushed my skirt up. I felt the heat of him against my satin-clad mound and sighed with longing. Six hours of build-up and I was furnace-hot.
His fingers pushed the fabric aside and entered me.
"Wow!" he half exclaimed, half moaned. "You're so wet..."
"I've been waiting all day..." I pressed my hips upwards. I could hear Obama speaking in the background, along with military hoo-ah's.
"Have you now? he asked. He fumbled his pants down over his hips and guided himself into me.
I whimpered. There was enough wetness to provide lubrication for an orgy, but the plug in my ass made his slide into me a tight fit. He pressed slowly, not stopping until the closely trimmed hairs at the case of his cock were prickling my clit. He drew back and then slammed into me, his balls slapping against the plug in my ass. I cried out a little. He gave me a tight grin and shifted into the rhythm that works so well on me, rocking me to orgasm in a minute, perhaps two at most.
He leaned over me, looking into my pleasure-blurred face.
"I think you're ready now."
"For what?" I asked.
He rolled me onto my knees and deftly pulled the plug out.
"For your Inaugural Ball," he answered, and pushed, making me see stars that danced to the ballroom music coming from the TV.