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Marily lay back on the rumpled bed as though she were a broken rag doll. Her legs were spread obscenely apart, one knee slightly bent, her breast jutting out from her chest, and one arm limp across her sperm-filled stomach. She was watching her next door neighbor putting his clothes on. She looked at him from the depth of her dark brown eyes, keeping him in focus, not wanting to see what she was looking at, but staring, not missing one movement that he made. Masculine was the only word that came to her mind. It almost amused her that he would put on his shirt before he did his under-drawers, that his now limp penis hung down beyond the tails of his shorts. Her own husband would never dress in such a disorganized manner.
Peter buttoned his shirt carefully, then knotted his tie, then reached to the floor for his jock shorts. He glanced at the voluptuous young woman lying on the bed, sprawled, her thighs still open and wet, and wanted to go back to her, to burn and scald her as he had done moments before. But, he felt as though she were staring a hole through him, looking at him but seeing what he could only guess at. He put one leg then the other through the shorts, then pulled them up around his waist. He reached inside, adjusted his still half erect prick so that it rode where it should, then took up his trousers and put them on, buttoned the buttons, then cinched up his belt. He took his coat from the chair and rammed his arms through it, then sat on the same chair and put on his shoes and socks. Then he stood and faced her. “Look,” he hesitated, talking down to her on the bed from his six feet two inch height, “You were good. And, I’ll be back again. I know you enjoyed it even if I did have to force you a little at first.”
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.