The Fourth Room

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...Margaret began to unbuckle her belt with one hand, popping out her coat buttons with the other. Excitement was robbing her of breath, making speech difficult. Her breast was heaving.

“I think it would be more comfortable…,” she gasped, allowing her coat to drop from her shoulders and slide to the floor, “…here, on the counter.”

Her own laboured breathing, the buzzing of the failing strip-light, his prurient shining wet lips; she would recall the scene many times over. Never would she feel so desperately aroused, so wanton, as she did in that moment. Leaning back against the hard top of the counter, she slowly and deliberately positioned her hands, fingers spread, palms flat, onto the soft flesh of her thighs. The tips of her thumbs touched the patterned silk of her panties.

He had not moved, still holding the phallus, but dipped, apparently forgotten. Her eyes were drawn to movement. His left hand was not visible, plunged deep inside his pants pocket. Something was agitating the front of his trousers. Staring at his crotch, she edged her thumbs under the silk panties, stroking the soft tight curls gently, then more firmly. She shut her eyes, now pressing the soft flesh under her thumbs and squeezing the mounds together. In red tinged darkness, she saw herself opening like some exotic flower, felt it’s constriction against the roughness of scarlet lace. Then he was close to her. She smelt his sweat. His harsh breathing was as laboured as her own. With eyes tightly closed, she transformed him from beast to prince, though there was more of stable than palace about his scent. There was nothing she could do to change it, save holding her breath. Before she could fill her lungs, his hands clamped tightly on her thighs, just under the swell of her buttocks. His palms were surprisingly strong, but soft, their touch cool and dry. She would have expected him to have sweaty weak hands. He lifted her bodily from the ground with surprising ease. She tipped forward, involuntarily wrapping her arms around him in a loveless embrace to avoid toppling. Her breasts pressed against him, her stiffly aroused nipples rubbed against the rough cotton weave of his shirt. She squeezed her thighs tightly against him as he heaved her onto the counter, with the wanton intention of beginning to thrust her hips.

Before she could thrust, he pulled back out of her grip. Disorientated and in fear of losing her balance, she opened her eyes and grabbed for the counter, shuffling her bottom back from its edge. She had half expected to see a tall and handsome prince in front of her, but the same short unattractive man regarded her with black button eyes.

“Take them off,” he instructed, his eyes dropping to her crotch and back into her own, as if defying her to disobey ,”the panties,” he confirmed...

Tom Covenent

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