Watching porn is a lot like opening a bottle of wine. Once you’ve popped that cork, you have to just see it through and drink the whole thing. Can’t let it go to waste. Or at least that’s the justification in my mind when I return to my couch.
I’m already aroused…so I might as well finish the job.
Lying back down on the pillows, I open the site again and the video picks up where it left off. He’s still bent over the desk when she starts prepping and probing him with lube, and I have to keep looking away.
What is wrong with me? In the club, I’ve watched so much sex, of various types, so why is this so hard to absorb? Pegging is nothing new to me, but suddenly I’m putting myself in her shoes—or heels, I guess—and it’s hitting me differently. As if my brain is telling me I should feel bad for how turned on I am right now.
When the woman slides into him from behind, I bite my bottom lip, without tearing my eyes away. She looks amazing as she thrusts her hips against his backside. So powerful and in control, and judging by the euphoric expression on his face and the way he’s moaning, I’d say he seems to be loving it too.
The next thing I know, I’m slipping my hand into my loose shorts to ease the burning ache building there. I don’t make it half as long as they do, and I’m tensing into my own orgasm just as they change positions, him sprawled on the surface of the desk for her, so they can gaze into each other's eyes.
It’s erotic and exciting at the same time, and I take that vision with me for the rest of the day. I would have never watched this before. But now it’s taken on a new meaning. Instead of just watching her, I’m imagining how it would feel to be her.
And I love it.
Mr. Stupid: How’s the research going?
Terrible, I reply. I’m pretty sure he’s not ready for me to tell him I’d like to peg him on our first date. And aside from the student-teacher video I watched yesterday, I haven’t found anything I’d feel comfortable doing with him tonight.
If you want to cancel, I understand.
Do you want to cancel?
No.
Then, I’ll see you tonight.
I’m standing in my closet, my lunch threatening to come back up as I stare down at his last message. I’ve never been so nervous in my life.
There’s a part of me that’s tempted to cancel the whole thing and just return to the safety of my normal, boring life. But once I close this door, I’m never opening it again.
Then there’s a part of me, a voice growing stronger every day that feels almost as if it’s bullying me into this. A fiercer, more confident version of myself I’ve learned to suffocate and ignore in order to play the role, get the job, not anger anyone or create any conflict. She’s clawing her way out of my psyche, and I’m too intrigued by what this new feeling promises that I can’t quiet her now.
Pocketing my phone, I find the sleek black dress hidden at the back of my closet. It’s one of those items I bought for an occasion that never existed. It’s low-cut, tight around my waist, and short enough that if I drop anything on the floor tonight, it’s going to have to stay there because there will be no bending over—well, not for that reason at least.
No. No. I am not sleeping with the mystery man tonight. I know he probably thinks he’s about to get laid, but I need to take things slow. It’s just a meeting to see if this is something we want to pursue or not.
I grab the dress, a pair of black stilettos, and pack a quick bag for the masquerade event before rushing out the door to get to Emerson and Charlie’s engagement party.
Parking down the street, I walk up to Emerson’s immaculate two-story home in my modest flats, knee-length skirt, and polka-dot blouse. It’s a far cry from the black mini and stilettos currently waiting their turn in the trunk of my car.