Angie's Love - Sex Stories

Angie's Love

... staircase as far as the first floor. He leads her to the bedroom at the far end of the empty corridor, opens the door with his zing card. He lets her in first. The toilet is on the immediate left.

She slips inside slamming the door behind her. Angie squats over the loo, her indigo dress hitched high as her breasts, her beige satin panties rolled down to her knees, asking herself, What am I doing here? What got into me all of a sudden? I should be ashamed of myself for what I'm about to do.

She lets her dress slip, shuts her eyes and clasps her hands in her lap, as if in silent prayer: For what I am about to receive may somebody, someone, anyone out there who loves me, make me truly thankful.

Prayer recited: Angie sighs a long, deep sigh of relief. The luxury braided Palisades toilet roll hangs off a brass ring on her left. She pulls off a thick wad and wipes herself dry, enjoying the softness of the tissue rubbing against her cleft, the sad, imaginary softness of Michael's fingers rubbing her, tenderly, rhythmically, caressing her body the way she used to love being caressed: to orgasm: the way she loved the most.

Michael, who used to make sweet passionate love to her on the sun lounger on the veranda in the half-light of dawn, her favourite, romantic time of day. She lets her soiled wad fall in the lavatory pan, twists her supple body at the waist, reaches for her tube of lube, squeezes a healthy, gloopy blob onto her fingertips then smears it, deep inside her ...

... love-hole.

'Forgive me, Michael,' she says to herself, opening her eyes, imagining his rugged face smiling down at her intimate act from behind the vanity mirror, It's been five long years. I have to move on now, darling. He's waiting for her next door through the bedroom wall: the man she paid to love, waiting to fuck her.

One last lingering moment of doubt, Not sure I can do this. Of course, you can, Angie-girl. You deserve it after all you went through, caring for Michael. She shakes herself, pulls up her pants, flushes the toilet, throws the used tube in the bin under the wash hand basin, washes her hands, fluffs her bleached honey hair, and opens the door.

She casts her eyes to the right, seeing the brass latch and chain drawn across, securing her inside. No sign of a Do Not Disturb notice. Must be hanging on the doorknob. She would hate to be found out. How would she explain her illicit tryst to her friends at the Bridge Club, at Aquarobics, Swimming, Zumba, Pilates, at the Tennis Club for that matter? How could she explain? I could never tell them, not in a thousand years. My friends wouldn't understand. Think of all the gossip. The scandal in our village.

She permits herself a wry smile. He's gone so far as to stick blue tack over the spy hole! He isn't taking any chances, is he? Chances, with me. I wonder how many other women he's fucked in this bedroom? Wonder if he'll be kind, gentle, tender with me? I wonder if he'll hurt me?

Her nerves haunt her. ...