A wet Wednesday gets unexpectedly hot.
It was one of those days. We all have them. Everything goes wrong. Ordinarily, I am calm and cool like a cucumber. I pride myself on my even temper. But my reserve was tested to the limit one wet Wednesday.
I’d taken the morning off work to wait for the gasman. But guess what? The gasman did not cometh, not in the morning window allotted him anyway. As midday came and went I felt a tightness in my cheeks as my face grew hot, but I brushed off the first flush of fury and called work to rearrange my day so that I could stay home and wait.
Next, my boyfriend called in a flap. He’d forgotten to get tickets for the game on Saturday and, with phone ones only now available, wanted me to call the box office. “Go on, Sage,” he whined. “You know I can’t wait in the queue on the phone at work.”
“I hate football,” I growled to myself as I dialled the number. Forty seven minutes later I was still on the phone to the box office, in one of those queues that tries to placate you with un-mathematical information on how long you have left to wait. My ear was burning from the heat of my phone and I was feeling my patience drain away.
Just as I got connected, the doorbell rang. I jumped, and dropped the phone, which promptly smashed the screen. I thumped to the front door, ramming the kitchen door frame with my shoulder as I went. The air turned blue as I surged forward with a face like thunder. The gasman visibly shrank back as I threw open the door and was trembling slightly as he passed me in the hallway.
And It didn’t end with a broken phone and a terrified gasman; like the constant drip of Chinese water torture, other mishaps followed throughout the day: A corrupted computer file, an incompetent employee, a minor scalding, three sales calls and the news that the boiler was unsafe and had to be taken off line. This day, by poor luck or design, was out to get me. Repressed frustration had coiled my muscles like springs and my head was pounding from the perpetual task of cooling my flammable cheeks. I was back on my broken phone to the box office, being told once more in that grating monotone that I was “third… in… the… queue” and I had “fourteen… minutes… to wait” when my football-filth-loving boyfriend returned from work, all smiles and cheeky face. “Hi honey… I’m home,” he called in a happy sing-song voice that finally brought me to the boil. I leapt from my seat, slamming the phone down, strode across to him and grabbed the back of his neck, bringing his face to mine in an abrupt embrace.
He resisted at first but soon melted into my lips, realising, with my hand clamped firmly to his head, that I meant business. I pulled back and moved my head to his neck, applying gentle pressure as I looked him straight in the eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, to no doubt enquire what was going on, but before he could voice the words, I’d moved my hand to his mouth and with my other hand I unzipped his flies.
He moved to unbutton his shirt, but I slapped his hands away. I took the edges of the fabric in a fist and ripped the shirt from his chest so that the buttons popped across the room. I was momentarily distracted, calmed even, by the sight of his smooth sinewy chest, but in a flash the memory of my miserable day returned, and I took to his nipples with my teeth, licking and biting them so that he winced and wriggled, but he didn’t push me away. In fact, I felt his arms around me and he pulled me close so that I could feel his hard cock against my thigh.
I yanked down his trousers, pulling off his boxers too in one deft movement. Except for the tattered shirt hanging off his back, he was naked, while I was fully clothed, and I could feel my knickers growing wet. I was furious and for once I loved it; the animal in me could not stop.
I broke away from him and stood back to survey my prey. I looked him up and down, his short brown hair, ruffled from my handling of him, his soft brown eyes, perplexed but sparkling with desire, his robust shoulders and muscular arms, arms that had so often held me tenderly, his cock that was now hard and twitching as he tensed the muscles in his thighs, his thighs, his firm hard football-playing thighs. Football… the beautiful fucking game… grrrrrrrrrrowl!
I pounced, literally, two hands on his chest pushed him to the floor and he fell heavily, me on top of him. Hell had no fury that could compare to mine. I pinned his wrist to the floor with my hands and pressed my face to his once more, forcing my tongue into his mouth, smothering him with my vengeful lips. I wanted to consume him, devour him, and the fire of my fury had moved between my legs; I couldn’t hold on, I would not wait for anything any more, I would have what I wanted right now.
Like I’d ripped his shirt I now ripped my own knickers, revealing my hot wet pussy. His hands free, he tried to open my top but there was no time, I was on him in a flash, sliding myself deep onto his cock, and gasping at the first thrilling feeling of him filling me. I fucked him urgently and emphatically in a way I never had before. I didn’t pause to think once about his own orgasm, or whether he was enjoying it, I didn’t even look at him. I just took him, used him, and as my cheeks flushed hot again I could do nothing to cool them as my orgasm took hold of me and pulsed burning pleasure through every pore, every surface of my body. I wailed like a banshee as I came, a loud primordial scream that could have broken glass, and then I slumped on him, exhausted and, at last, serene.
Strangely, I don’t mind football so much these days. Or call-centre queues, or telephone banking. There’s nothing like losing my cool to get me all fired up.
