I watched them flirting for an hour or more, and was starting to get a seriously impatient hard-on, the kind you need to shoot off, in the proper setting — buried deep in her exquisite, humid pleasure mine.

        I was past my limit for waiting. Which I hate, and she knows it.

        It’d been two whole days, and nights (which is long for us).

        “Hiatuses are good”, she says.

        I say, “Hiatus bad, fucking Sandy till she whimpers and gasps, is good. Real good.” Before, at home, she’d cracked her dressing door open, while we’d gotten ready, separately; that’s so I can’t touch her.

        “It’d ruin the game, of anticipation,” she says.

        However, I may watch her dress, stepping into stilettos, slinking into a shapely silk dress. Beneath that, her glorious skin only. No underwear, usually, not when we go hunting; just fruit oils, different scents and flavors, massaged all over her highly responsive body, while in front of the full length, triple mirror; my gift.

        A triptych of Sandra; there are much worse things to see in this life.

        Plus, she enjoys watches me watching her; and drooling, anticipating, waiting….

        Getting that aforementioned hard-on.

        Yes, she’s got a tad bit of a mean streak. What guy doesn’t love that in a hot lady, who seriously “puts out”?

                    [story break]

        I wanted her in the car, but she said it’d “be better, if we” waited. More fucking waiting. But, okay, Sandy’s always right. So, I waited, again.

        Barely.

        Why?

        Because she’d propped her doorside, strappy stiletto on the dash, with her skirt slithering off those great thighs; revealing her soft, full bush, smelling of cherry almond mixed with randy Sandy scent from just - flirting - and - mind - fucking - some - new - man - in - a - room - full - of - friends - and - strangers.

        All the way home, I couldn’t keep my hand out of her hot, wet cunt. I love it when her box is burning and swollen slick; grasping tight around my fingertips.

        She sighed, groaned, whatever; it was a delicious sound, as she shoved my fist in deeper, her thighs holding me fast, as my selfish girl humped and wiggled on several of my digits.

        Think I should’ve made her wait?

                    [story break]

        Repeat after me people, “Bad is good, bad is very good. And ‘naughty’ is best.”

        Panting belly on belly, air on my sweating back and the hydraulic noises of hot sex; the only other sound was a car stopping and whatever else there is to hear between suburban houses and a still open door to the connector and garage; littered with the bread crumb trail of my discarded clothes.

        Sandy wanted me on my back, of course, because there is always more with my girl. So, I shucked the last of my clothing, socks, and shoes; to lay back down on the cool, hard wood with her jungle sultry crotch plastered on top of mine.

        Sidebar: some stupid guys, yes, I said “stupid,” have a problem with the whole lying on their back thing.

        They feel it’s a bitch’s thing; a female’s place. Ah, what the fuck?

        Remember, though, on your back you can still move her around without tiring your elbows and knees out, without looking over her shoulder at absolutely nothing.

        This way your view is much better, fellas.

        And you horny gals, who are too “ladylike” to ride cock, you can make us gaze up and worship you.

        Forget being fed juicy grapes like some dead Caesar, fellas, when you can have your choice of lips, tongue, tits, and clit fed to you.

        Wise up.

        Right, smart ladies?

        By the way, Sandy’s juicy left breast tasted of coconut, the right was definitely strawberry; flavors we both like. And I love both of her—.

        Speaking of great taste . . . .

        The new man she’d been rubbing up against at the party, and had been watching us fuck from the doorway, finally, stepped part the way into our home.

        I trust Sandy’s basic animal instinct for making the correct choice; hell, she picked me.

        He looked so different from me, and clearly considered leaving, seeing up close her completely stuffed to the overflow with my long fat enthusiasm; but, when Sandy’s riding the living log, and she looks up at you, even if she’s not mounted on you, and you think better discretion is to leave . . . .

        You don’t. You cease to think, only feel. And want.

        I once stood where he’s standing, in another time, in another town, in a frat man’s dorm room, watching her fucking him into the ground, while gazing at me, like she already knew what I wanted in my woman — an open promise of . . . many things.

        I didn’t leave, then, as my cock grew heavy, then tall, and hard.

        This new man didn’t leave, either; he didn’t move. He probably stopped breathing for a long while, as I watched his cock search his inseam for cunt.

        Which is all fine with me, because as soon as she realized he was there, her already versatile, greedy pussy had gotten real charged, clamping on me mercilessly till I thought I’d cum then. She knew I would, too.

        But, Sandy shifted her weight, and loosened her slick grip, teasing me to slow down and chill off, a bit, yet gave him a better view of her circular bobbing on her favorite, juice - slick cockhorse.

        I barely heard him gasp, “Shit” over my own moan and that delightful throaty squeal she makes when she knows she’s got total control of two rock hard cocks she wants.

        The reliable hardness of my cock and a fucking spare....

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