DITW 10-15: Ghosts & Spirits

What a ridiculous thing to do, but still, it was the best option. She closed Devlin’s apartment door behind her and listened, standing in the foyer unmoving. He was in Kingston today, but the man’s presence had bloomed into a large and foreboding thing in her life, and he always felt near. It would be like him to expect she would come to his apartment to masturbate, hiding in the closet to step out at the most opportune moment and surprise her.

But the place was a tomb. Empty and lifeless, lights off, cool and air-conditioned. She slipped off her flats and went into his kitchen, going to the fridge and opening the door, like if he were watching right now he’d see an old comrade just stopping by to use his place to grab a bite. Then she wandered, going into the living room, everything neat and tidy, nothing left out, no empty pop cans or video games. Down the hall, to the bedroom, poking her head in, making sure she was truly alone.

Seeing the apartment empty this way, devoid of human existence, standing on the bedroom’s threshold, reminded her of the time he’d fucked her from behind and she was sure the real estate woman had seen them. She smiled and shook her head, reliving the badness, the wickedness, almost disbelieving it was her in that erotic memory. But it was. It surely was. She’d watched herself in the mirror, Devlin with his hands on her hips, pounding her from behind with that huge cock. She’d come so hard that day.

Now she was moving again, going quicker in bare feet down the hall, returning to the foyer and doffing her fall jacket. Into the kitchen with the noisy plastic bag from the sex shop under an arm, opening the drawer where she’d find the scissors. She removed the package from the bag and lay it on the counter. Admired it. Felt bolder, like she was getting away with something. She ran her fingertips over the massive dildo’s shaft, slick and smooth, riding its PVC-sheathed packaging. A stiff drink would be nice, and she turned to the cupboard by the fridge where he shielded his good whisky from deprecating light, and drew down a bottle of something Scottish. Poured herself a glass, took a sip and savored it, wincing, exhaling the smokiness through her nose.

The scissors weren’t enough for the dildo’s heavy duty plastic wrap and she needed the aid of one of Devlin’s handmade knives, pulled from a walnut block on the kitchen island. It sliced a cutout around the dildo without having to tackle the reinforced edges the scissors had trouble defeating. Then her might friend was out and free, unzipped from its plastic trousers. She plopped the suction base onto the granite countertop, laughing as this big rubbery cock wagged back and forth.

“Perfect,” she said, then gathered up the packaging, smiling, chuckling, putting it all into the plastic bag and then stashing all the discarded packaging into her purse in the hall. When she returned to the kitchen, the twelve-inch King Cock still ticked side to side like a beefy metronome. She stroked a thumb and finger circle down the shaft, starting at the delicious plump curl of the cock head’s flared corona. The dildo didn’t have quite the supple cock-head feel that turned her on. It was rigid and unforgiving. The shaft was sticky, unnatural. Maybe she should have bought condoms. At least then it would have an excuse for feeling unnatural. She didn’t think they had any condoms here in the apartment. They’d been bareback for a while. She liked it raw. Her hand rested on the flat below her pants’ waistband, and her brow lowered a moment. Then she fisted the cock away with a loud pop and walked down the hall to Devlin’s bedroom, whisky glass in the other hand, tossing the heavy dildo onto the king-size bed where it bounced twice, then lay lifeless on its side. King-size bed for a king-size cock.

The bedroom smelled like him. Not him, not his body, not his natural smell. It smelled like the after shave he wore. She unbuttoned her shirt and went to the tall dresser where he kept some personal items on the top. A watch, a Patek-Philippe with a leather band, one he hardly wore; three bottles of amber cologne; a comb, some coins, a money clip with two twenties and a fifty pinched in its golden mouth. Seeing those items made it feel like Devlin was home, like he was still here. It chilled her.

She went to his closet, taking off her shirt, tossing it toward the bed, walking around her menacing lover’s bedroom in pants and a bra. His fine, expensive suits were indexed on hangers, organized by color. Shades of black, steel, and charcoal. She ran fingers on the fabric, unbuttoning her pants. At the bedside she let them drop to the floor and stepped out of them, returned them to his dresser and lifted one of the bottles of cologne. She held it near her nose, closed her eyes, flashes of times he’d worn this scent playing dirty pictures in her thoughts. She touched the pad of an index finger on the flat circle of the spray nozzle and then rubbed the oily wet at the base of her thumb, returned to the bed smelling his scent on her wrist. With the covers pulled back, she sat down, set the whisky bedside, and unhooked her bra. She removed it, put it on the floor, then coddled her breasts, stroking her thumbs across her nipples, each time finding them plumper. She closed her eyes and breathed, tried to set a scene in her head. Then she lay back, swung her legs under the covers and put her head on the pillow. The stillness was beautiful, the quiet. And being in Devlin’s apartment, too. Nice in that old wicked way, but at least this was harmless. Under the covers, she thumbed down her panties, brought them out and dropped them in the locale of her discarded bra. Totally naked now in Devlin’s bed. A warmth began; an inner heat, a changing of her brain’s chemistry narrowing her unseeing vision, shaded by closed eyes. Her breathing slowed and deepened; her hands stroked her stomach, her sides, her hips. Both hands smoothed her flesh below her navel, swooping down between her parted legs. Two middle fingers worked up and down on her seam, hot and lively but still dry. She found her wet and lubricated her petals, her legs beginning to writhe under the sheets.

When she knew she was ready, she moved her hand around on the covers, eyes still closed, finding the weighty bulk of the extra large penis she’d purchased. She brought it under the covers, held it over her stomach and gripped the base of the shaft, the other hand swirling a grip on the cock head, like she wanted the dildo to feel pleasure.

But the cock wasn’t very cock-like in feel. It wasn’t warm and yielding. It was rubber. From a factory in the U.S. it had boasted. It should be washed first. Why didn’t she buy condoms?

She grunted, frustrated, whipped the covers back and sat up, opened the bedside drawer. The lube they used was there, and she drew the bottle out and put it on the bed, then shuffled the other contents around looking for a rubber.

Lo-and-behold, she got lucky and found one. At least she didn’t have to get up now and go to the washroom. The closet door was open, and she stared at Devlin’s suits. Got up after a moment and crossed naked, touching the fabric again, then removed one. She held it up by the hanger, admiring it, running a palm over the lapel. Brought that back to the bed and lay it on the other side, up by the pillow. She got back in bed and pulled up the covers, laying on her side, looking at the suit. She opened the breast, grabbed a pant leg and pulled the pants loose off the hanger, having to work out the dowel from the mechanism that kept the pants hanging in place. With the pants flattened out, she found the King Cock again, tucked it down inside the waist, pushed it up so it pressed out the fabric. Then she squeezed it over Devlin’s pants, like she’d found him hard while they were kissing.

That butterfly kaleidoscope fluttered again, and the horniness came up in a tidal swell. She leaned closer to Devlin’s pants and unzipped them with both hands, put one in there and found that massive cock and withdrew it from his fly. She pressed her lips to the head. Pushed the head against their plumpness. Parted her lips and let the head enter her mouth, as large as Devlin. Her other hand touched between her legs, found herself nice and slick and ready. She imagined the King Cock as a real cock, imagined Devlin’s heavy breathing when she used her mouth on him. She sucked the head only, stroked the mighty shaft, eyes closed the whole time, rolled back in her head and imagining sinful times when she was a very bad woman.

She rolled to her back, lifting the heavy dildo through the fly, putting it under the covers with her. She teased her opening, put pressure, eased it away, pushed it in. She said to the empty room, “Get a condom,” then searched for it, found it, lay Devlin’s cock on her flat stomach and opened the packet. She had to push the covers down to get the condom on the thing, but when it was sheathed, she closed her eyes, put the dildo under the covers again and teased herself. She whispered, “You’re so big. We’re going to need the lube.”

She popped the thin nozzle on the lube and squirted some into her palm. Then she coated the huge cock, again going slow and deliberate, like the dildo would appreciate the tender care she offered. She pushed that huge cock head into her wetness again, this time gasping with the pleasure.

The dildo was too rigid, too unforgiving. It was inhuman. But she was wet and so fucking horny and needing that she could imagine herself out of its unnatural feel. Thought instead of Devlin; Devlin the asshole, Devlin the cruel manipulator, Devlin the masterful man who owned her pussy. Who dominated her sexuality even when she was the Kimmy that would strike fear in those sex-shop working girls. She pictured herself now, dressed for work the way she liked, high heels, high gloss, stopping with Devlin in Devlin’s Mercedes, walking the aisles with him, superior to all the products, just looking for some leather and paddles and lube. Those girls would drool. They would masturbate later on at home with the very toys they sold.

As she inched it deeper, felt the enormous stretch and fulfillment a big, hard cock offered, she pictured Devlin fucking her on the counter at the sex shop while those small cunts watched with gaping mouths. Her with her elbows, confident, aroused, tiger-like, mewling as Devlin pushed deep inside her, spreading her canal and opening up interior rooms that no one knew were even there. The dildo went deeper still, and she pushed away thoughts of those dumb girls and now thought of herself the way she was now: splayed out in her lover’s bed, her husband at work, her boss needing her for the interplay they both loved. Fucking at lunch at his swanky fuck pad. Getting takeaway and waiting here for her lover’s arrival. Getting fucked like no other man could fuck her. Going back to work with his sperm in her, going home to her loving husband and kissing his mouth with another man’s kiss lingering there.

She groaned and moaned, biting her lip, hating the intensity of this illicit arousal. It was awful, terrible. It was the opposite of who she was. Yet it was her. Six-foot in Loubs, dinner at the Royal York, Porterhouses and whisky, leather interiors and lots of spending money.

Her legs shook and quivered, and her pot began to boil. It wasn’t the big cock stirring it up, though that was a great mind-anchor, it was her own thoughts, her own monstrous desires that scrounged all the materiel needed to construct her erotic bomb, igniting megatons of orgasm a kilometer above her city. She cried out loud and free, no one to hear her, letting out so much pain and anguish and unfinished business. Regret, shame, worry and terror all swirled black tendrils into the white hot passion of her solo pleasure. She cried real tears, tears of release and sorrow and lamentation and of joy. The orgasm left her panting for breath, relieved of her sins for now, emptied and wiped out, just like she’d done with her hand for Josh this morning. In the wake of her husband’s release, his first question had been tell me everything. In the aftermath of her own release, her first statement was you can never tell him.

Her phone chimed, and she made sounds of annoyance, whipping back the covers and sitting up.

“Fuck.” She’d left a wet swath on Devlin’s charcoal bedding. She’d come all over her former lover’s bed. At first she thought of blow-drying it, then shrugged. The used dildo was tossed to the floor, the condom’s reservoir tip empty—she loved when Devlin ejaculated, and the emptiness made her feel hollow—and she swiped up her pants. Phone retrieved she sat back on the bed and swiped it awake. A text from her sister Eileen.

“Fuck you,” she whispered, reading it, seeing the attachment. A sonogram of Pop’s first grand baby. But her lips trembled, and she touched the image, feeling sorry for having animosity for Eileen at such a beautiful time.

She wrist-wiped her eyes, smelling Devlin’s cologne again, sniffling, hating feeling sorry for herself, hugging her naked stomach and putting one foot over the other. She’d missed her last period, and now this one wasn’t coming either. It should be here today at the latest. It should have begun a few days ago. What if—

The front door of the apartment opened, someone coming in, and she cursed and jumped up, scrambling naked with nowhere she could escape to.