Revealing Miranda
by Kris Kennedy
My wife and I just had early morning sex. Oh, she's back to sleep now, already, and I'm off to work. But I can smell her all over the room. Her sweat from rocking and angling and pushing, so her clit could get drubbed and rubbed against my superimposed weight. That scent mixes with the juice that's all in the sheets and probably still wet on her inner thighs, mixes with the faint remains of last night's perfume. I love to fuck Vicki in the morning. She's loose and open and soft and I can push in and in until I feel like I'm at the gates of forever.
Yeah, all dressed now. I stare out the sliding door of our balcony where the surface of the pool glistens like a hoard of tiny, floating clits, coming. Sheesh. That's what Victoria does to me when she fucks me in the morning. For hours, every damned thing on the planet looks like sex. I want to squeeze her breasts goodbye, hard, the way she likes it just before she comes off, howling like cat. I resist. Look in the mirror. Not bad what I see, OK, but not what I'm expecting. I'm expecting to see the "real" me. The guy I used to see at eighteen or twenty-five or thirty-two. I'm not all middle-aged crisis over it, but really it seems like someone's been doing a plastic job on my face a little bit every night for the past, say 15 years. And now they've made me into this. The guy everyone trips over to say ingratiating things to all day.
Everyone thinks they want to be a millionaire, to own a successful company and all that. But they don't, trust me. You're not a person anymore. You're the millionaire, the curiosity, a sort of walking goal post.
Shit!
OK, I took one more pass at the sliding door, don't know why. Don't know why. I should be outa here, maybe hoping Vicki would wake up and want to go round again. My cock is still half hard thinking about her. And what do I see out there on the lawn? I linger just for a split second. There's this nasty mix of -- what is it? Like conflicting objectives. Go, don't go.
No, it's her. The groundskeeper. A dykish, lanky… She's not mannish; quite the contrary, very svelte I think is what they say, and bronze and with sleek, sharp muscles. And she wears the short, ratty shorts that climb up her crotch when she's bending over deep, and the bikini top that shifts and gets all out of place when she does those physical things a groundskeeper has to do.
She's bending over the pool with the skimmer -- is that left tit going to pop out? I wait to see. Her tits aren't full round like Vicki's, but they're sassy. You want to kind of slap them or something -- lightly, lightly, just enough to make them juggle is what I'm saying. Like they're laughing at a nasty joke. No. The tit doesn't flop out. It kind of bulges up, there, though, like it wants to jump. There's something so natural about Miranda, like nature in the wild, I mean, that I sometimes think of her as an animal. Sorry to say. Or maybe not an animal exactly, but someone feral, someone you could picture living in the wild and surviving pretty damn well. Anyway, sometimes just seeing Miranda makes me angry and lustful and wistful and -- I don't get it.
So I'm off. Down the stairs, a slosh of coffee in my travel mug. Vicki sets it up for me the night before without fail. Makes sure we have my favorite brand on hand. Never lets it run out. You know, after she fucks me, it's funny. I suddenly find myself thinking about all the nice little things she does for me. And we don't fuck all that often, too bad. But it's so nice when we do.
I'm dashing out the door, brief case in one hand, coffee mug in the other, the smell of jasmine from somewhere across the yard catches me, and then bam!
What the ---!
That damned Miranda has come around from between the bushes and we crash. First I curse. Coffee has squirted up from the hole in the mug's cap -- all over my hands. Sticky. And she's got some really rank-looking thing dangling from her hand, which I realize is a dead, blanched lizard that must have got into the pool. She was actually trying to hold it out, away from our crash so it wouldn't smush between our bodies. And I wanted to yell at her, but of course I didn't.
"Hey, sorry, Mister Van," she says, smirking. Still holding that damned thing. I look down at my hands and realize that I'll have to go back and wash my hands.
"Sorry," she repeats. She's still holding the thing out away from her. Because why? Because it smells is why. That hits me, too. A shiver of repulsion. Right about the exact same time the soft feel of her body hits me, and a little thrill of excitement. Funny how it's always afterwards that the good parts come back to you. In the crash, my forearm touched her breast; her thigh pressed my half-masted penis. My dick surges remembering it now. She's walking away, the lower flesh of her ass cheeks rubbing together, I can just about see the ridge, where thigh becomes butt, beneath the tight cut-offs. And just before I think again about fucking Vicki and get a broadside of guilt, I watch the seam of Miranda's jeans cutting between her ass cheeks, hugging her crack, and I picture how in front it must be burrowing between her pussy lips, rubbing her hot little clit, like, all day, and I think, "little animal."
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