A Natural History Of Desire

Author's note: all characters in this story are well over the age of 18 – including the cat, who slept through the whole thing, any way.

I was saying, "uhh, unhh, ahhh, unhhh, UNHHH."

Meanwhile, Joan was saying, "uh uh uh uh, OOOH, ah, ohh, baby!"

"Oh baby, oh, UHH, unhhh, aghh, uh – uh ," I said. "Oh ahh?! – Ohhhhhhh - I'm gonna come!"

"Oh god, do it lover – UNHHH! - Come on, big boy, give it to me," Joan panted.

"AAAaaaaAAAAAAGGGHHHH!" I yelled, as I ejaculated. I pulled out of her just in time. My spitting cock flung thick strands of pearly sperm all over Joan's hard, sleek belly and her small dark-nippled breasts. She reached up and milked the last big drops of juice out of the tip of my dick, and put her hand to her face, taking the hot jizz into her mouth and eagerly swallowing it. She put her hands to her perfect little breasts, collected more sperm, and ate it. Then she ran her fingers all over her stomach, collecting still more, which she also put in her mouth and greedily gulped down.

"I want every drop," she said, as if I was requiring an explanation.

"I'll make more," I panted. "I'll get busy making more right now."

My penis, having gone semi-limp in the wake of my orgasm, woke up as I took in the sight of my voraciously spunk-hungry girlfriend. It throbbed as blood rushed back into its length, getting harder and longer with each pulse beat. This was not lost on the keen-eyed Joan.

"I can be late getting back to work," she said, giving my balls a soft squeeze before beginning to jerk me back into full erection. It was fifteen minutes before one in the afternoon. "This time just come in my mouth."

"Whoah, whoah, honey," I cried out. "I have to get back. I have a meeting at two, and I need to get ready."

Joan sighed unhappily and let go of my dick. She stood up, and while reaching for her clothes on the floor, she bent over elaborately giving me the full view of her taut bare backside. Joan was a small woman, a runner with the legs to prove it, hard and sinewy, wide hips and a very firm ass, flat abdomen, very small upturned breasts, dark thick straight hair with streaks of gray that she did not dye at my insistence. Everything about her body gave me a boner, but those streaks of gray hair were the best. I teemed with lust when I stroked her hair, which I did often. Something about those marks of age on a very attractive and otherwise young-looking woman gave me the hots, big time.

As I contemplated her bent-over figure, I thought, I can change my mind; I can go fuck that ass right now. Just take her and do what I want. I knew her daughter wouldn't be home from school any time soon. And, in fact, I had no meeting that afternoon. I was just in a hurry to get back and email Kirsten to tell her about my lunchtime lovemaking.

I once read a book in which a womanizing character was almost unable to actually have the illicit sex he was always after because he was so eager to finish and get back to the pub to tell his buddies about it. Sometimes I wondered if that was the case with me. Good old Kirsten – I was forever regaling her with accounts of my sexual capers with Joan, in hopes that she would reciprocate with some hot tales starring herself. She rarely disappointed.

I know, I know - I started this story with a Joan, and now before you know it we have a Kirsten. Who is the story about? The answer: Kirsten. Who is she? She was not Joan's opposite, despite their polar physical differences. Physically, where Joan was small and slender, Kirsten was tall and full-bodied; men of a certain age would call her stacked. Joan's breasts were tiny and delicate; Kirsten's breasts were big and rather, well, active under her blouses. Joan's stomach was flat, very defined, and gorgeous; Kirsten's belly was round, brown, smooth, and gorgeous. Joan wore virtually no makeup and was lovely that way. She would doubtless look lovely with makeup, too. Kirsten was beautifully made up; she used cosmetics with great subtlety, but I happen to know that she looks great with none at all.

There were somewhat less pronounced and more problematical differences of personality. Joan was quiet; she spoke quietly, and yet she talked too much, and too often too seriously. Kirsten was not quiet, and though she could be serious, was generally much more playful. Joan loved sex. Kirsten looked like sex. Joan was like the shy librarian who might give you a very hot fuck indeed, and after, she would assign you a chapter to read and discuss before you fell asleep. Kirsten just fucked, or so I imagined.

Of course, the real difference between them was this: I had Joan but I was sure I wanted Kirsten. Joan had me, but insufficiently - she wanted to get married. She always wanted more. Kirsten had a husband, and could have had me, but wanted – what? Such was my situation. Two women were circling planet Carl (that's me, in all my self-centered glory) in crazily elliptical orbits, sometimes far away, sometimes too close, one sometimes close when I wanted her far away, one sometimes far away when I yearned to draw her to me. As I said, Kirsten was married, but only once. Joan was single but twice married in the past. She wanted me to be husband number three.

"We would make such great children," she told me. Joan and I were the definition of the off and on relationship, in the course of fifteen years being sometimes just friends, sometimes friends with sleepovers allowed, at other times, eager inseparable lovers.

Kirsten and I had put in eight years worth of flirtatious but ultimately platonic friendship. We met at work. She (I think) initially cultivated my acquaintance because she was a highly competitive company sales rep and I was a company number cruncher. She wanted an inside guy to see that her research requests were given preference in the processing queue. It worked for her. It's amazing what you will suddenly be willing to do when a pretty woman needing a favor asks nicely, and sits in your office with legs crossed and showing a whole lot of smooth, silky bare thigh, and if she leans close to you – having remembered to unbutton an extra blouse button... the sales history spreadsheet she cares so much about magically jumps to the front of the line. Is that wrong? Is it cheesy? Maybe. Probably. But if so, then nature, if possible, got us humans wrong, should have made us more noble, stronger. Did she manipulate me? Not really. We had a mutually beneficial transaction. She did her job well, and I got the pleasure of her attention. She unbuttoned that blouse for ME, bro. It is what it is.

I probably would have helped her out any way, even without the extra inducements, because I liked her. She was worldly, subtle, and sarcastic, and those are personality traits I value. I also don't think the displays of extra flesh were her standard operating procedure, either. I think she liked me. As time passed we became actual friends.

As I mentioned, she was married. Her husband was a guy who loved fishing as much as he loved his fishing boat, and both seemed to come before his wife in his heart. Weekends – he fished. On their vacations they went where fish were and he fished. She watched him fish, I assume. I became the babysitter for their cat when they were on vacation. I was often single, Joan notwithstanding, and so it didn't really matter where I spent my evenings and weekends, at my house or at theirs, with the cat. I liked her cat. It was no big deal.

I said that our friendship was flirtatious. It was. I was very much attracted to Kirsten, and made it no secret. I thought that, as her friend, it was only right for me to keep her apprised of this, so she could be on her guard. She didn't protect herself from me all that much. I think she liked the attention more than she was made uneasy by my deliberately obvious advances.

"I'm a man," I told her, "I know what rotten behavior I'm capable of. I can have a great time in the sack with a woman I don't even know – with a woman I don't even like – so watch out, because I know you and I like you. If I can fuck you, I will. I'll fuck you first and worry about the consequences later."

"You should have known me when I was single," she told me.

"Get single," I told her. I felt justified in saying such blunt things as this because all the stories of disappointment she had told me about life with her husband left me little to no doubt that she was not very happily married, and I intended to be first in line for a newly-single Kirsten, should she ever become available. I'm a planner by profession and by inclination; it's what I do. Meanwhile, we flirted. She was a chronic sexual tease with me.

If I missed a day of work, she would tell me something like, "Oh, Carl, yesterday - when you weren't here - I wore a halter-top blouse. The kind you can't wear a bra with. I'm afraid I let a bit too much show."

"And how did that make you feel?" I asked in my best psychologist's manner.

"Like fucking every guy in the office," she coolly replied.

"Give me a moment, I have to go jerk off about that," I replied.

"Ooh, I'll come watch," she said in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice.

"You can help," I told her.

Or, she would tell me that on the weekend while she was swimming laps in her pool, her strapless bikini top slipped down and she was swimming along with her boobs out. "And I was thinking at the time that if you were there you wouldn't have minded a bit if that happened," she told me.

"Thanks for thinking of me and your boobs at the same time," I said, and I meant it.

It went on like that all the time. Once I won a bet with her. My prize: I got to pick her work outfits for a week.

"What should I wear tomorrow?" she asked before the first day of that week.

"A real loose bra under a real tight shirt," I told her, half jokingly. "I need to see you jiggle." And she wore just that. I picked all the stuff she wore that I had seen and liked: the clingy red cotton jersey dress that was just a bit too short for work and stretched so nicely across the cleft of her ass, the ruffly black blouse that was see-through in the right light, her tightest jeans, the snug v-neck sweater that came so very close to providing an inappropriate display of her breasts – although to me it was highly appropriate. And so on. I'll say this for her – she delivered what was promised.

(And let me add, on the subject of flirting, and Kirsten's cat: don't even get me started on all the deliberately dumb pussy jokes she made while referring to her cat. "Do you like my pussy?" and "Let's play with my pussy!" and "Wanna pet my pussy?" and "Isn't my pussy cute?" and on and on and on. Sadly, even this got me hot and bothered.)

I spent a lot of time hot and bothered over Kirsten.

"What about Joan?" she would sometimes ask me, usually when my overtures toward her were becoming maybe a bit too insistent. "Why aren't you happy with her? Your sex life certainly sounds great."

"It's fine," I would say. "She's fine, the sex is fine. It's all the time when we're not having sex, though. She talks things to death, Kirsten. It's why I don't live with her. Ultimately, we aren't compatible. I like to fuck then sleep, or fuck, then eat, or fuck, then go out. And so on. Or do whatever, and then fuck. I mean, sex is important, but when it's over it's over. Move on. She wants to dissect everything. Too much talk can suck the life out of things, sometimes. She's all over me with stuff like 'what were you feeling when...' and on and on until I just want to get up and leave. I bet you wouldn't do that."

"But I'd probably do something else," she said.

"I'd take my chances," I told her.

Those fishing vacations were a real hot-button issue between her and the husband, I think. Students of human behavior would most likely say it was a simple, classic case of the neglected wife, and hey, they'd probably be right. I won't claim it as a unique circumstance. I'm just reporting what happened. But those vacations really seemed to be the focus her sense of dissatisfaction. Sleazily, I benefited from this. I got more attention in those times of her discontent. There would be physical contact. If she came over to my house to watch a movie she would sit very close to me then silently push her head under my shoulder – a childlike action which I found unspeakably adorable - to let me know it was okay to put my arm around her. She would "need" neck and shoulder massages, back massages. I'm a strong man. Big wide mitts for hands. I'm good at massages.

"That feels wonderful," she would tell me as I plied her delectable flesh.

"You feel wonderful," I would tell her.

These massages took place at my house. "As soon as I leave I bet you'll masturbate," she told me.

"I will," I told her. "My hands will go directly from your skin to my johnson."

"Really?" she would ask, with a lovely smile.

"Maybe," I told her. She claimed her husband knew about the massages, by the way. Said he didn't mind, at least so I was told. Odd guy.

She was particularly miffed about the fishing vacation they took in the eighth year of our friendship. I believe there was a marital spat over it. She did not want to go. That time she said she needed a head to toe back massage. The full ramifications of this request became clear to me when she emerged from my bathroom in a towel and laid face down on my bed, unwrapping the towel to reveal herself, wearing only a rather brief pair of white panties, about as small as panties can be without qualifying for full thong-dom. Being a gentleman, I had resolved long ago not to attempt to touch her private parts unless invited.

"So, what are my parameters?" I asked mid-massage as I began rubbing the warmed-up massage oil across the satiny skin of her upper thighs and hips. "What am I forbidden to touch?"

"No penetration – that's your only restriction," she said with a laugh.

"This is excruciatingly sexual for me, you know," I told her.

"When we're done I'll leave and you can beat off, dear," she said.

"Can't I just take a quick break and do it now?" I replied.

"But what if you come all over me?" she said.

"Then I'll just have to strip you and wash you off," I answered.

She laughed. "I'm already stripped, almost," she told me.

"Or I'll just rub it into your skin," I told her. "I hear sperm's full of vitamins."

"Gosh - maybe I should eat it," she told me.

"Oh, girl, you should," I said. "You definitely should."

All the while I begged, I pleaded, I pointed out the positive health benefits of a complete massage to Kirsten, but she would not turn over and let me work on her front. What can I say? I'm a man; I love tits. All styles welcome. The best I could do was to slather oil on the sides of her large breasts where they were squashed between her ribcage and the bed. So soft, so smooth, so squishy.

"I'm falling deeply in love," I told her, as I kneaded and caressed that heavenly breast flesh.

"Save some massage oil for you," she told me. "Won't you need it for after I leave?"

"Maybe so," I told her.

"Do my shoulders some more," she said.

"I can't take my hands off your boobs," I said.

"It isn't like your hands are really even on them," she said. "It isn't like you have two big handfuls of my tits - like you wish you had."

"I have to take what I can get," I said. But, I began working on her shoulders.

After a while, she sighed and arched her back, which raised her rear end off the bed and made it stick up in the air in a very provocative manner. She wiggled her ass at me.

"Fanny again, please," she now said. I went at her bottom. The massage oil had soaked her white panties so that they were essentially transparent, and as they were a sort of semi-thong type any way, not much covered the two round smooth ass cheeks. I grasped each side with my hands and rubbed slow and hard, working the large muscles that lay under all that creamy skin. I so badly wanted to get a good firm hold on her hips, pull that ass to me, and fuck my balls empty in her. I channeled my frustrated desire into how hard and thoroughly I was massaging her beautiful butt. She groaned deeply.

"God that feels good," she said. I worked her backside from the waist down until I reached the backs of her thighs. She adjusted herself so that her legs were spread open wider. I took this as an invitation. Slowly and deliberately, so that she'd have time to stop me if she wanted, I reached deep between her legs and slowly ran the tips of my fingers over her pussy mound, across her clitoris, along the split of her vagina lips, and on up and oh-so-slowly across her anus. I could feel it all through the thin damp panties. She made no attempt to stop me. I really would have stopped if she had. She lay still on the bed, but she was breathing very deeply.

"You're a naughty boy," she told me. "Now I've got something to go home and remember."

"There's lots more where that came from," I told her.

"It's seven. I have to go," she said. She sat up, holding the towel she had been laying on over her chest, and took a long look at me. "Why Carl, is there a problem with your sweatpants?"

I had had a raging and uncomfortable hard on throughout the hour-long massage. I looked down at the obvious bulge in my sweats, and then looked Kirsten in the eye.

"That's my cock," I said. "It's your cock, whenever you want it." Why be coy?

"If I'm ever single again, I might have to take you up on that," she said. "It looks huge."

It's actually not huge, by the way.

"Get single," I said, for about the zillionth time since I met her. "Of course, if you get single right now you won't get to go fishing next week - all week long."

I thought it was a strategically good time to remind her that her husband was a jerk and was making her spend her vacation watching him fish – again – which I think was the reason she felt justified and deserving in coming to my house for completely improper and far from innocent massages. I hoped I was strengthening my case for eventually being granted a fuck for crying out loud. But, who ever really knows what evil battles go on between married people.

At the mention of the fishing trip, her face clouded up in a frown, and her big green eyes narrowed.

"Nice. You had to mention that and ruin my good mood. Fucking fishing. Fucking FISH," she spat out.

Bulls eye, I thought. She got up abruptly, and went into my bathroom. My heart sank as I heard her dressing. Playtime was over.

"You're still going to babysit Biscuit, right?" she asked from the bathroom. Biscuit was her cat. A nice little dark stripey-style kitty. I didn't mind watching her. She was a nice cat. It was also nice to stay somewhere different. I get tired of my house from time to time, so staying at Kirsten's was a good change. "I'll leave the key under the flower box on the porch like before."

She came out of the bathroom and sat on the edge of my bed. She drew a heavy sigh, looked at me and smiled. I sat down next to her. She laid her head on my shoulder. "Why don't you give massages to Joan?" she asked.

Now, Kirsten's mention of Joan right then may have been a well-aimed poke back at me for my mention of her husband and the dreaded fishing trip. It was as much as her saying, my husband might be a bore and an asshole, but you have a supposedly nice girlfriend – yet here you just spent the afternoon in your bedroom with a nearly-naked married woman, and didn't even get laid. Too-shay, my love, too-shay, I thought.

"I do give Joan massages - proper massages, back and front," I said, trying to put the tiniest hint of reproach in my voice.

"That's because you're a couple," she told me.

"Let's you and me become a couple. I've got time to become a couple right now. Joan wouldn't even mind," I said. "Shit, she was going to let me go to some group sex thing with her ex-husband's sister."