The blood rushed through the streams between her legs, colliding at the tip of her skin, like heartbeats sending heat down to her pussy. She could feel the weight of her legs, spread semi-open on the bed, as the muscles relaxed and sank into the cushion. She realized she’d been circling her right nipple with her middle and index fingers, pinching it every so often. She ran her thumb down her breast, onto her ribs, and to the lace tip of her blue and white polka dot underwear. Her index finger made the journey back up her stomach, through the belly button until she cupped her whole right breast with her hand. The sight of the red polish on her trimmed nails made her smile.
She knew he’d love that. She knew he would love to be the one circling and pinching her nipples, running his thumb down her stomach, and index finger around the belly button; filling his hand with her breast. While her pussy pulsates and she bites her lower lip in a plea that he keep going.
Isabel had been observing him for as long as she could remember. His boyish posture at the dinner table, the dorky jokes that made her laugh, his propensity to think carefully before speaking, as if every word deserved careful consideration. Their time alone was non-existent, as men and women were never allowed to mingle without chaperons. But weeks ago his eyes sought hers even as his glass toasted another man’s. Since then, they’ve stolen their moments alone with glances.
Every Friday night, for one hour before supper, men and women convened by the lake. Verbal exchange between the sexes was kept at a supervised minimum; she made conversation and played with the girls. Yet her sight and mind were fixed on his shoulders; the tanned skin glimmered under the West-setting sun as he chased the kids in the water, and picked them up, flexing his biceps, flaunting the shoulders. At night, when she laid unfocused on the book in hand, running her fingers over her body, she thought about his stomach, chest, arms. She’d never seen them, but knew they would be strong. And warm too, she thought, if they had the chance to press against her soft skin. She imagined his shoulders swelling and tightening as they might if he picked her up, put her back against the wall and wrapped her legs around his waist. Isabel imagined them kissing frantically, playfully biting, tongues grinding – fast breaths as their brains decide which part of each other’s bodies they want to touch the most.
His hands cup her breasts as he sinks his head into his shoulders, knees bent to kiss, lick, and suck on her tits. His hair is too short for her to grab onto, so her fingertips find their way to his back; she squeezes the muscles as she throws back her head with a whispered moan.
He brings her legs down, and her feet touch the floor. His hand roams every inch of her right side as he slides it from her cheek to her neck, shoulders, breast, stomach, and hips. His fingers press her to open her legs, which she does quickly. She moans deeper. For so long she’s craved that strong, calloused hand between her legs and it’s here now – her body is hot and the tip of her fingernails dig into his shoulders. She bites and kisses his chest, excited, wet, impatient for him to put his skin inside her. He breathes in her ear as he moves an inch of her underwear away with his index and middle fingers and runs them over her skin. It spasms, moist. She wants to seize his hand and push it up against her skin, but he moves before she does – he swiftly grabs her hips and turns her around. She responds by spreading her legs, arching the back, and turning her head so her lips can find his. He drops his jeans, and through his boxers, he makes her feel his cock, as he rubs it against her ass. She offers it to him, forearms and left cheek on the wall, legs quivering with anticipation.