by ADR Forte
She's got a thing for pinstripes. His pinstripes. Not when he's wearing them: hair slicked, keys jingling, kiss on the cheek goodbye. She has to be careful when he's wearing them. Not to spill coffee on them, or smudge charcoal pencil or trail earth and grass from work-dirty hands. But she likes him like that -- clean and smelling sharp and cool -- a smell she just can't place, of soap and cologne and starch.
It makes her want to grab him and possess him and do unthinkable stuff.
Maybe it's Freudian.
She doesn't really care about the why.
From the bedroom, she can see the row of jackets hanging in the walk-in closet, empty arms waiting to be filled. Lapels waiting to be drawn across a hard chest, over starched cotton of his shirt. Her nipples get hard.
She looks around, like she expects to be caught, even though she knows he's upstairs, occupied with his gadgets or his books. No chance he'll come down here for a good hour. Or maybe he will. It's danger of discovery that adds the high. She feels dirty and clever and very, very bad as she wriggles out of jeans and a formerly white tank top, streaked now with red-brown finger marks.
No matter how hard she tries, somehow she always gets a little bit messy. Her eyeliner tends to smear. Her hair always gets tangled, looks like it's been cut with a blunt knife even when she goes to the expensive salons and lets them fuss over it for hours. It retreats to its natural state.
The hip-hugging white panties are the only things still pristine -- for the moment.
She pulls one of the spare pillows still in its plastic zippered bag from the top closet shelf; throws it down on the floor. She turns the closet light on. Just a dull yellow bulb with an antiquated pull chain dangling from the socket, the metal so old it's lost its color. Just like the ancient carpet still covering the closet floor. He always asks her why she hasn't replaced the bulb and the carpet, such a little thing, when the rest of the house looks like it just fell off the front cover of some fancy living magazine.
She always smiles.
She can't tell him why.
Something adolescent, something forbidden in taking the slender vibrator from its hiding place behind the pile of old sweaters.
During summer it gets hot in here. Sweat trickles down her spine as she kneels and inhales the laundry scent of clean pinstripes. Imagines she's kneeling at his feet, sucking his hard cock. She loves to suck him off; begs him at inappropriate times -- like in public. It drives him crazy because he wants it, and he'd let her if only he dared.
It's that little piece of him that would be shocked to find her here, like this. On the floor.
The pillow goes under her ass, for leverage. She lies back as far as she can and spreads her legs, facing the closet door. Next to the dark jackets his shirts hang in stiff, waiting formality. Eggshell, pale blue, pale cream -- all distorted in the dingy light of the lone bulb yet still immaculate. She smiles and switches the vibrator on. It isn't going to take much to make her come.
Even so, she rubs a thumb against one nipple, her middle finger against the other. The chain on the light sways, the shadow crossing back and forth across her body. She watches it, not thinking about it. Her concentration shifts between her fingers, emotional detachment at how hard her nipples get, and her nipples, her stomach, her cunt all tight and quivering with unbearable pleasure.
Through the nylon of the panties, she feels the hard tip of the vibrator, the buzzing promise of more, and her muscles contract. She has to remind herself to make it last, otherwise she'd binge all at once and have it over too fast. Still it's so hard not to force the vibrator into her flesh and hold it down hard, squirming until her muscles give up and lose all control.
Sometimes she does do that. Like when he's riled her up past endurance -- kissing her neck and playing with her tits or spanking her ass hard until her skin blossoms red -- and then left her with a laugh and a rev of the car engine as he's driven away.
He likes playing those little games with her, but he never goes any further. Down here on the closet floor she can take them as far as she wants. She can beg and she can make him refuse. She can make him force her. She can scrape her nails across his skin.
Inspired suddenly, she switches off the vibrator. She reaches for the sleeve of the nearest jacket. Pinstripes of course. It slides off the hanger with the merest swish of protest, and she wriggles her arms through the sleeves. It hangs like a giant's garment around her shoulders.
Smiling, she shakes her hair loose of the jacket's collar. She reclines on her makeshift couch again. Turns the vibrator on and feels her stomach jump as she wonders how far the sound carries. Not far enough. Not upstairs, not if he has the TV on. But still. What if it did?
She makes sure her legs are spread as wide as she can get them. The wet panties rub on her skin. She can look down and see the lips of her pussy red and shiny with moisture around the edges of the nylon. The swell of her clit pushes at the sheer material; she brushes it with the vibrator. Just a little bit. Little bit more. Flicking her nipples counter rhythm. The jacket rubs at the edges of her tits. Can't get enough of it.
Her breath sounds loud even over the vibrator's hum. She's overheating in the lightweight wool. Blood is pounding in her temples, heart beating as fast as if she's panicking. This is where she throws her head back, where she arches up, even though the plastic bag is sticky, clinging to her skin.
God yes, it feels good.
She's satisfied, drunk and reckless. Vixenish.
But it's not enough.
Before the sensation fades, she has to capture it again. Now it's her game. To see how far she can push her body. Now her nipples are tight and puckered; they don't need any touch. Now the vibration buzzes deep inside because she uses both hands to press it into her panties and her overstimulated flesh. She tightens her stomach; she slides her feet up the sides of the doorframe.
She's a half-moon suspended over nothing -- nothing but her cushioning pillow to save her spine from the unsympathetic floor. With the length of the vibrator jammed against her pelvic bone, crushing her clit, she flexes her hips. She fucks it, bites her lips to hold back her screams. Because that he would definitely hear, and that would be cheating. If ever he catches her, if ever he uncovers her dirty little secret, it must be by accident.
Oh how she wishes. How she wishes. She's a slut, she's a cunt. She needs this, she needs to be made to come until her breath is raw and her mouth is dry and her muscles ache and her head throbs.
Feet above her head, toes pressed against either side of the doorframe. The open jacket framing her naked torso, bare breasts rising from between pinstriped sleeves, tangled hair hanging over the padded shoulders. Filthy panties stuck to her crotch by shivering, pussy scented fingers. She is picture perfect.
She turns off the vibrator.
She turns off the closet light. The chain clinks against the bulb in darkness while her eyes adjust. With a movement of her shoulders, she shrugs the jacket off and lets it fall to the closet floor. She shivers, hot and cold as her body cools down. Her legs still shake.
She laughs as she leaves the closet. While she wonders what to do with the jacket until she can sneak it to the cleaners. She hopes he wasn't planning to wear it soon.
She can't let him find out. Not about this.