I Scratch Your Back, You Scratch Mine

I finish rinsing and turn off the faucet, the bathroom steamy from my shower, my skin pink from the hot water and scrubbing.  I dry off with the towel from the floor and head upstairs to get ready for the day. You're busy, ironing a shirt, finding socks...until I stop and stand in front of the dresser, naked.  I put both hands on the antique deep walnut top and lean over a little, sticking out my butt, stretching the muscles in the back of my thighs, my body glowing in the light of the lamp that's there.

You notice.  You know what I want.  You come to me and I smile.

You begin right between my shoulder blades your fingernails are trimmed nicely, so you have to really mean it to do damage -- I want some damage.  Scratch my back.  Work in slow circles symmetrically midway down where my bra strap would be, a simultaneous wax on wax off in reverse, and then lower, down the middle of my spine.  Dig a little harder returning to my shoulders, the red now raising to the surface as my itch is temporarily satisfied.  My skin is especially sensitive.  I understand what scratching an itch is simply a distraction to those nerve endings, confusing a needy irritation for a little pain.  

My back is a war wound remembering too much time spent lying on my stomach digging holes in the sand.  Those burns so deeply layered.  My freckles are fond battle scars; homage to the memory of sun worship.  I miss Vitamin D.

Kiss the back of my neck. 

My hands find you behind me...cupping...teasing.

I turn to face you and hold your gaze as I kneel at your feet.   Dirty reverence and adoration given in gratitude at this altar lit in dim morning light. Favor for favor.  

What's Your Plan?

True story:

I'm at a friend couple's going away party at a local pub -- a place I like, but haven't been to that often.  There are a lot of work colleagues and acquaintances there, all drinking and being merry, wishing our friends the very best for the next chapter of their lives as they leave town.  The place is well lit, but not fluorescent or garish -- warm.  It's a nice place; comfortable with fun, mannerly clientele, but not schwanky or snooty.  

I duck out of the party room to get another cider at the bar.  I like cider.  

While I'm standing there, waiting my turn, the guy next to me gives me the once over (psst. we know what you're doing).  Up and down, and stares for a moment.  Long enough for me to give him a look back, expecting some sort of comment or question.   "Do I know you from somewhere?"  Yes, really:  This line.  "No, no, no.   Really!"  He notices my tattoo.  "You have more tattoos, right?  Like all over!"  He swears he knows me, and starts to guess places.  Neighboring suburbs are named.  Places of work.    He seems to have known the person he thinks I am intimately, all be it hazily, as if there was some bumbling, sloppy, drunken sex had on a stairwell somewhere, sometime in the past.  He seems a little embarrassed.

 
At this time, my husband appears next to me to refresh his drink.

 
"Joe,"  He'd introduced himself as "Joe."  "Joe, this is my husband, Tim.  Nice chatting."

  
With my new cider, I make my exit down the bar back toward the party.   Several steps away, a woman tumbles from her seat gently knocking into me as I am passing.  We both apologize; she: for the knocking, me: for being there.   We are good both natured.  I continue on my way and she follows me into the next room.

 
She engages me in conversation.  Her name is "Ingrid" and she wants know what I do for a living.  I explain my job as a Props Master for theatre.   She doesn't seem to understand, exactly, but she thinks she gets it: custom built furniture and puppets and fake food, but NOT for the movies. 

"How do you know Bert and Maggie?" I ask.  Bert and Maggie work in the same business as I do.  Their names are changed to protect the witnesses.

"It's a long story." 

"Oh, ok."  I wonder what that long story is.  Bert and Maggie are not sinister.    Neither is sordid.  A nicer two people have never walked the earth.  How long and seedy could the story be if it couldn't be synopsized into a sentence or two.  Even, "We met when they held me captive for a weekend one summer and I  enjoyed it so much that we keep in touch.  I sure will miss them when they move to Philly." is pretty succinct.  Inquiring minds want to know!!  But I let it go.

 
She told me that I remind her of a friend of hers.  Her friend is married to a tattoo artist -- she has tattoos all over.   I told her that she should go talk to Joe, that he's looking for her friend.  
Again, my husband arrives by my side.  Introductions and a topic of conversation.  I am a butterfly and see another coworker that I need to say hi to. 

A little while later, Maggie asks me who I was talking to.  Quizzical.  "She said it was a long story." 

I’ve been told that this is a scenario for picking up a third for sex.  I didn’t realize this at the time, while I was in the middle of it, but was it?  I’m flattered, but what’s supposed to happen next?  What was your plan Joe and Ingrid?  

Ingrid is chatting me up and I pretend that it’s ok that she’s followed me into the going away party for my friends — after a bit, she confesses that she doesn’t know them.  She was attracted to me.  She wanted to get to know me a little to make sure I wasn’t a serial killer before inviting me to further the conversation with Joe.  Will they confess their scheme with a little apologetic embarrassment and hope I will find it amusing?  Am I open to the adventure of a threesome with them. 

Do they live close by?  Within walking distance?  Am I brave enough to go with them?  Is it their desire to please him?  Ingrid fucking Joe while I straddle his face grinding my pussy into his mouth before turning around, my knees over his shoulders, my head turned to lick his cock when Ingrid rises from her riding. 

Or are we here to please Ingrid?

Or me?

Have I been invited into their bed to add a little spice to their routine?  The added element of my decisions and tastes to mix things up a bit, while they play safely together. Exciting.  Rules laid out between Ingrid and Joe prior to ever meeting me — previous to each one fumbling through the story of my doppelgänger with tattoos all over.  Maybe they work better as a team. 

 

 

I have played the part of a character in someone else’s story.   Thank you Ingrid and Joe.  It’s been fun.

What is it about you?

What is it about you that makes me want to sit on you backwards? Is it the way you look?  You are appealing.  Or the way you speak? You are funny and intelligent. Or that you listen?  You listen.  Or is it your irresistible eye crinkles?  I like those. 

I want to hold you in your seat with my whole body, the inside of my thighs on either side of the outside of yours.  My tits in your face.  My arms 'round your head.  We don't even have to be naked.  But that'd be fun, too.  

If we were naked, I'd want to do more than sit there.  No need for small talk, "Nice weather we're having."  "How about them Braves?" "What is the average air speed velocity of a laden swallow?" 

If we were naked and I were sitting on you backwards; warm, soft skin in full contact, I'd also like you to lick my right nipple -- take your tongue and circle it, then suck it.  Take each of my breasts in your hands and alternate your attention from the right to the left and back again.  Shove both together, no need to be gentle here.  Pull hard and release.  Use your teeth:  the sensation is salacious...titillating...  

While I'm deeply straddled across your legs, your dick wanting attention against my snatch, I'll grind my clit against it -- plowing up and down, giving it pressure as I rut.  Is that dirtier than actually fucking?  Humping my clit on your dick -- forgetting thoughts for a bit -- just the feeling of rude rubbing.  I'll want your cock after I've come.  It's right there.  It's a matter of convenience.  Slide forward a little.   

Maybe it isn't so much about you as it is me.  What is it about me that makes me want to sit on you backwards?