Scandalous ACT I

She awoke suddenly.
Staring into the darkness, all her senses immediately tense and alert. Someone or something had pulled her from her sleep.
As she lay quiet and still, she felt the power within begin to flex andstir... She sent out a seeking.
Reaching outward first with her mind to feel for another presence in the house, she casts a quick glance to the crib in the corner, barely lit by the muted glow of the nightlight. Notes the babe is lying sweetly on his back, still slumbering peacefully. For tonight, she is the guardian, paid to watch over him.
She enjoys the baby and her friendship with his mother. And sometimes if she’s needed, especially on the weekend, she’ll stay over.

Maybe his mother had returned? Yes.
She can feel her now. As her senses start to come down, unwind, relax, but there’s something more.
Something else.
A force undefined yet swiftly building, powerful, so strong.

An achingly long, low groan comes clearly to her, breaking the silence from the room farther down at the other end of the hallway.
Instantly, her skin prickles with goose bumps, as her scalp tightens and her body quickens. She is standing and wrapping the thin robe about her and has moved toward the doorway and through it...
...before even aware of having done so.

Mood senses like quicksilver ripple over and within her.
She feels no fear, nor alarm, but a thrumming urgency. Though the sound is perhaps one of pain, it was not one of terror. This eliciting a note of caution in her step.
As she gently closes the door to the nursery and turns in the hallway, her mind blooms full and overflows with pictures...

With barely a whispered gasp, she falls back softly against the closed door and is projected instantly, plunging headfirst into the panorama before her.

The woman is nude...
Except for the floral silk gown, that has slipped down from her shoulders, to lie in delicate tucks and folds about her waist and hips.
She is sprawled in a wooden Captain’s chair facing the trio of mirrors that grace the dresser. A gorgeous dark mahogany antique style chair. High-backed

with elaborately turned legs and velvet padded armrests on each side. Though I can’t see them clearly, as her legs are splayed wide over each arm.
So...open and draped carelessly, so provocatively.
She sits before her dresser with the big mirror in the middle and the two slightly smaller ones either side.
She’s moved them...just a little, so she can see.
See herself and watch as...
She touches herself. Sees clearly, all of herself there is to see that faces the mirror.
And it’s a thrilling erotic view from where I stand to the side, captured in the glass from slightly different angles.

There’s a warm soft glow from the candles in the fancy holder to one side on the dresser, so many alight and...
It’s so bright.
Bright enough to make her nude form shimmer; appear almost wet and warmly blushed.
She is all peaches creamy skin and curves. Yet before this night, I was blind.

I didn’t know. How could I?
But I see her now.
Her long red hair hangs loose, thick, and heavy down her back.
Some of the strands are curly tendrils that appear whisper-silky smooth,
tangled and damp about her face.
How breathtakingly beautiful and alive she is...
But the words are too small. And I’m at a loss.

Incapable of capturing in the telling, how she looks, right here and now, at this very moment...
She pants softly.
Arching suddenly, groaning again long and deep... Her body in a writhing fluid motion of kinetic energy... And yet, it does sound...
Pained.
More...muted breathy moans and whimpers, the muffled cries ceaseless, exciting and so...

Different from the deeper, lengthier groans.
Her arched neck is a long, supple column exposed as her head fell back,
To show the pulsing throb of her heartbeat.
Before she smoothly raises her head once more.
I wish to Christ I could feel what she feels instead of this passive observance.
Yet, I can’t help but see.
Watch and learn.

Her cheeks are flushed pink, and I see small beads of sweat gathered on her nose and high on her cheekbones like tiny freckles.
I watch in awe as the energy from her pours forth like a living flame.
It’s an incandescent, luminous golden ball of shifting, whirling light.
That radiates outward in waves, yet surrounds her too.
Her mouth is parted, her lips wet and they appear swollen, darker somehow...
As her body strains, twists. Moving in a continuous, urgent rhythm... Like a dance.

I move between her and the mirror so that I’m before her now, able to watch exactly every unrestrained action of her delicate fingers. Yet she looks straight through me with eyes half closed, naked and bright burning with a smoldering gold- green fire to the glass before her and the reflection she sees within...

I smile as I look back over my shoulder to see from her perspective all that she sees.
Observe for a moment as her hungry gaze follows the movements of her own hands.
And as I look back to her, and down to where they are...and see them move. I am enthralled.
Completely and utterly captivated.
Spellbound; rooted to the spot.
Only to fall in a careless soundless heap, between her spread thighs. Before rising smoothly to my knees.
Needing to move closer yet.

The rich curls of her hair below are the same deep red luster as that upon her head.

Though where it is wet, it’s darker and curlier still. So tender, so tempting and inviting.
The mound of her sex is plumped high; her folds seem thick, swollen.
And are spread wide by the fingers of one hand.
Her inner lips are the iridescent perfection inside a conch shell, the deepest rosy ripened-apricot.
I have the strangest urge to bury my face in her sex, rub my nose...my lips, even my chin through the slickness I see gathered there.
I want to dip and slide my tongue in and over it.
Curl the tip between the plump lips...to slide it deep into her body, lapping at the very core of her...to drench, to drown myself with the nectar I see dampening her inner thighs.
I yearn to taste; ache to drink in the essence of her feminine arousal. Feel...know for myself what pleasure tastes like.
Is the flavor tart or sweet? Or an ambrosial mix of both.
Though never before has such a thought even occurred to me.
I’ve never even tasted myself...but know I now will.

I think about sex...probably as much as other girls my age.
I’m eighteen after all and ready to experience, more...
Know I think about it a lot sometimes...especially when try as I might,
I still can’t imagine what it will feel like to have a hard, thoroughly male cock tear through the skin of my hymen the first time.
But never before have I thought to do that.
To imagine such a thing with...a woman. Shouldn’t it feel wrong?
Yet, despite the confusion, right here and now, it just feels right.
For she is simply without a doubt, the most potently sexual and desirable being that I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I’d chuckle if I could at such a nonsensical thought. This beats any pictures I’ve seen to date!
So I watch. Simply powerless to do otherwise.
I see something in her hand as she moves it, I don’t know what it is, but it’s obvious what it’s for.
She holds the end of it, pinched tight in the fingers of her left hand, while using those on her right, to lay open and stroke...

It’s a long solid rod. Maybe plastic, but definitely molded and phallic of shape. It’s black, the color a striking, blatant contrast to her skin.
So thick and huge around that if I could, I would tremble.
But in fear or excitement, I know not which.
My God...Is a man’s cock really that big? Surely they must come in different sizes, but how does one check for fit?
I can’t help but laugh inside as an image comes to mind...
A row of likely candidates, ‘down-trou’ with hardened shafts sticking up at me as I wander down the line perusing my choice. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Can you imagine?
I’ve heard my brothers speak of their dicks. Straining to hear every word and wishing I could see exactly what they meant. There’d have been hell to pay if they’d caught me!
How I covet and love the deliciously wicked, evocative sounds of such words as cock and fuck...and worse, cunt. That one shocks my sensibilities silent.

Such powerful words... Such naughty and forbidden words that ignite and inflame one’s curiosity with wicked fascination. Words, alive with a flavor I can taste and test, roll with lazy amusement, ever so shyly and deliciously over my tongue.

Newly awakened, the slow burn of the dragon that lies within the aching cradle of my womb, stretches and yawns...
My brothers speak of their cocks as though they are an appendage somehow separate from their bodies with a life force and will all its own. I don’t get that. Mind you it must be nice to be able to stand while peeing and not have it run down your leg. And to have something decent to play with...
At other times, they spoke of them as if a weapon, revered by thankful, satisfied girls and women alike.
What a crock! But then seeing as I wasn’t supposed to be listening, and I really like to hear...
But this cock looks like a long cucumber gone wrong.
And part of me wants to laugh out loud at the thought.

She slides it, no...she pushes it in, thrusts it in hard and so deep that surely it must hurt! So that it almost disappears fully imbedded within her.
I squirm. Watching.
As pumping, plunging it firmly and rhythmically in and out of her body so it sucks and pulls with a wet, sticky sound.

She circles and rubs frantically at the engorged bud of her clitoris above with two fingers, ever faster setting a frantic pace. Only to pause now and then to press it instead as though a button.
Her pelvis rising and falling in time with the rapid movements.
Yet my eyes are drawn again to the black rod, and I can’t help but wonder...
Of all things, how in the hell she manages to keep such a firm grasp upon it? When her own hand, wrapped around the base is...
Shiny, slick and slippery with a frothy white syrupy cream, that spills freely from between her lips, stretched tight as they are about the ‘pretender.’
Trickling a path downward and beneath her to form a wee puddle.
Even though a part of me feels, that this is the worst, the most wicked of intrusions...
Still, I cannot seem to make myself leave.

Especially as everything abruptly seems to converge and begins to happen all at once.
And it is such a terrible beauty, that I feel the first prickly shards of fear...
Fear of the unknown? Or fear of what is left, yet to be revealed? As a climax, a culmination of something as yet unseen reaches critical.

Is this a true face of passion?
Her mouth hangs open wide to suck in halting, great, ragged gasps, though her eyes have fluttered closed until suddenly...
Suddenly her neck and upper body stretches, arches back on a groan torn from her lips as a visible, visceral trembling begins. The muscles in her spread thighs taut with the strain.
As she again releases a wail. Loud and long that has me moaning unheard along with her.
Such a desperate keening sound that even in the ethereal state I am in, it sets nerve endings on edge.
Such a primal resonance that seems to come from deep in her throat and is unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. To linger like an echo long after it’s gone.

Simultaneously, I watch mesmerized as the huge dark rosy-red nipples, on her heavy breasts, ruche tightly into thick hard stems. Her urgent hands move faster, one thrusting, the other rubbing. And it seems with such a brutal intent.
As unexpectedly, she all but stutters and stills, captured like a photograph at the moment of taking.

Then I sigh with amazement as her pleasure shatters into fragments before me. Spilling her release with an endless silent scream from the perfect ‘O’ of her mouth.
As her body ripples and rocks with the spasms, as though shocked with electricity.
She is easing now.
Till finally, it passes.
And she sags.
The toes that were curled tight, and her feet too, gradually unfurl.
Limbs that were strung tight, surely to breaking point.
Have collapsed loosely and lay spent.
She reminds me of a picture in a book I saw once; a most surreal landscape with melted clock faces, by Salvador Dali.
I think maybe she sobs...just a little, a soft lonesome cry.

But it’s her energy aura that still barely surrounds her now that has captured my attention once more.
In her moment of completion, it blasted outward like a supernova...

As bright as the sun.
It went from the golden glow I first saw, to a sizzling orange and then magenta, before coalescing to purple and white, as stretching...
Stretching impossibly outward to form a single, horizontal beam of pulsing white-hot light.
That now is slowly...
Ever so slowly...
Like fog that slips away and into the shadows...
Is dissipating before me.
The way she lies slumped slightly forward in the chair now.
Makes her appear fallen.
A bit like a broken doll.

And I wonder why they say “I’m coming?” When it looks like a death to me and should perhaps be, “I’m going...”

Oh God! I hunger for this look of sated. Tis my favorite so far.

As her head hangs limply down, the nipple I see before me is peeping out through her hair, soft and pink and round. Perfectly puffy once more.
She’s lifted a leg off of one of the armrests, and that too lays limp and relaxed cast awkwardly out before her.
I see clearly the ‘pretender’ that was now. As she slid it wet and slick from between her lips, where more of her cream had soaked her most thoroughly.
I assumed sex would be messy for two and grin wryly at my own naivety and ignorance.
I thought only men made a mess when they ejaculated. It just never occurred to me that women grew wet with their need and did that too when they came. It’s actually rather messy, how can people like that I wonder?
She dangles it loosely from even looser fingers, and as I look at it curiously, she is gradually catching her breath.
Perhaps, ‘like a cucumber’ wasn’t too bad a thought at all but I like ‘pretender.’ It amuses me more.
The end she had buried inside her, tapers to a rounded point while the end she gripped is blunt-cut straight across.

An insidious thought worms it way into my thinking, as I can’t help but consider what such a huge, hard thing would feel like, buried that deep inside of me.

Would a blood and flesh male feel better or worse?

Which then has me thinking as to whether or not, to fuck and feel the first time within me a youth my own age? Would he perhaps be careless of my beginning though? Clueless to what sated means, save his own?

Better perhaps, a man of experience. One who might think my maidenhead a precious gift.
A man with a confident proud cock with the wanting to see me shatter in his arms and more, the knowing to make it happen
.
I so want to feel that! Before and after the tearing.

*****

Before she could finish her thought, she is hurled back inside herself once more.
Into her body, whole again as she slowly becomes aware of her surroundings.
Her legs start to give out, and she feels herself begin to slide down the door.
Moving to regain her balance, she is already turning away from both rooms, walking swiftly in the opposite direction down the dark hall to the empty room beyond.

Slipping silently inside, easing the door closed before tearing at the belt on her robe, and pulling urgently at the gown and nightshirt until they fall free from her body and land where they may.
Oblivious to the buttons that tore loose and went flying to clatter against the linoleum as still holding the belt, she makes for the bed.
Throwing back the covers before sliding herself in and tumbling back against the cold sheets.
Folding the belt now over and upon itself before slipping it into her mouth between her teeth and biting down, she lies back against the chilly covers and stares without seeing the ceiling above.
Her body is a tortured; living, breathing, flame of suppressed, acute need. Burning her to the molten core within.
Sprung tight as a coil and desperate to the point of pain to be unleashed. Every cell...
Every nerve raw...

Screaming in an agonizing silent overload of sensations.
Each hair in its follicle over her body seems to stand erect, as the hot blood roars in her ears, surging rhythmically through her body to the persistent hammering of her heart.

Her mind’s eye is flooded with the images of what she’d just witnessed, as they continue to flash one after another. To sear indelibly into her brain.

Drowning her consciousness with a permanent memory of every single, sharply defined moment.
Using her hands, she keeps them flat to her nipples, her breasts filling each of her palms then moving them in small hard circles over the tender and sensitive tips. Then tentatively she smoothes a hand lower over muscles and stomach to the searing ache between her thighs. Spreading her legs wide, she lifts her ass until slightly raised. She feels the dampness of her own juices on her inner thighs before sliding her hand beneath the elastic of her panties to the honeyed wetness within.

And as shaky fingers glide over the hardened pout of her clitoris, those first tentative strokes over the swollen, sensitized knot jolts and excites every nerve ending.
It’s enough. Enough to send her exploding—catapulting end over end and into the rapture. As screaming into the make-shift gag between her teeth, she is lost, tossed into a blissful oblivion.