MIRI TRIES NOT TO THINK ABOUT THAT NIGHT while she’s awake, leaving that painful pleasure for her dream. But there are times—and this is obviously one of them—when she can’t help herself.
There is only one solution, one way to get Jack out of her waking head. Two ways, really, though they both end up the same way. A man or masturbation. Walking the edge, stretching for the fall.
The desperation keeps her focused on the possibility. The anticipation keeps her focused on her body. Neither leave her room for Jack.
But the few men she could call for this service aren’t what she wants this day. She doesn’t want any distractions. She doesn’t want to have to consider what he wants, where he’s at in the cycle.
What she wants is twofold: get Jack out of her head, and an orgasm. She’ll be happy to manage the first.
Because during that drive for release is the only time Miri’s body isn’t overwhelmed by her racing mind, the one time in her life when she can concentrate on something other than whatever’s in her head. When she can focus on the pounding of her heart, the soft bump-bump of her pulse, the ache between her thighs.
She remembers, even now, the first time.
It happened by accident the first time, though never again that way. Because Miri had never been slow, and once she discovered it, she figured out how to achieve it all on her own.
She wasn’t very old, maybe eleven or twelve, and for once she was in the bathtub alone, her baby sister somewhere else. The door was closed, the water warm, and she, as ordered, was scrubbing the grime from her knees. The washcloth, old, faded and soft, tracked between her thighs and she felt something, a tiny tug, a warmth swelling in that place.
Her mother had never ordered not to touch that place; in fact, she’d never spoken about it at all. All Miri knew was the tiny bit she’d learned in school, and that tiny bit, she understood, was myth.
But once discovered, like the heart of Africa, she never lost it. Even the first time, Miri knew exactly what she wanted. She added soap to the washcloth, making it softer and slicker, and she slowly, ever so slowly, rubbed and rubbed and rubbed until her mouth formed an O and so did her body.
She pulls open the blinds in her bedroom, leaving it bathed in a soft reflection of the summer light. It’s just warm enough, the air conditioner blowing a soft breeze of cool air right over her bed, as she prefers.
Her nipples pebble, aching for the first touch of that cool air. Miri moves slowly, savoring the anticipation. She’ll make this last.
Might as well make it last, because there will be no end, no explosion, no climax. Being on the edge is like going to an endless movie—she gets to the big chase scene and it goes on forever. The hero never wins the fight, never gets the girl. The music never swells up to the final crescendo.
She goes to her toy drawer, filled now to the brim with items bought in the hopes that this one, this particular vibrator, this gel, this toy will push her over the edge.
None have, none will.
So she chooses her old favorites. Pleasure gel for her clit. The small pink vibrator she’s had since before he ruined it for her. A duo of vibrating eggs. A small, black leather crop. A bottle of warming massage oil.
She places them all on the bed and then adjusts the pillows. Two for under her ass, two for behind her neck. She’s learned to be careful about this, knowing how long she’ll be arched like a bow, knowing the ache she’ll suffer in her back and neck unless she pays attention now—before it’s too late, before she’s too far along.
She pulls off her T-shirt, slithers out of her jeans, then walks barefoot to the kitchen and fills a small bowl with ice cubes. She pulls out Yo-Yo Ma’s Soul of the Tango and puts it in the CD player.
The preparation entices her, begins the swell of her labia, the throbbing of her clit. Her nipples harden, her breath becomes uneven.
Each step is important, each move choreographed, enjoyed, taken slowly and thoughtfully. All she has is the anticipation, and she will draw it out as much as she can, push it until the pleasure becomes pain, and then she’ll push it further until she can’t stand it anymore.
And then she’ll give it up, hope once again banished by the memory of Jack.
Miri lies down on the bed, still in her bra and panties, their removal another essential step in the dance, a step that comes later. She closes her eyes and reaches out to ensure the toys are within reach.
She begins.
She heats the massage oil in her hands. Starting at her feet, she massages with the oil, slowly, sensuously, licking her lips at each touch of the warm, wet fingers on her skin. Calves are next, then she lingers at the backs of her knees.
She is intent on the sensation, slowing even further. The combination of heat and slide and almost tickle at the back of her knees translates heat and slide and almost tickle to her center. She feels the first faint tug, the first tightening of the inside muscles, and slows even further.
Not yet, she whispers, not yet.
Her thighs—the top and back and outside first, caressing the soft skin and avoiding the growing heat, the pulsating part of her that can’t stop saying touch me, touch me now.
She leaves the insides of her thighs untouched, moving to her stomach, allowing only the very tips of her fingers to venture inside the elastic of her panties, a gentle tease and more tightening.
Miri slaps down the part of her mind that is thinking maybe today’s the day, knowing that way lies despair.
Her arms are next, her shoulders, her upper chest, once again allowing her fingers to linger only just inside the lace of her bra, her nipples straining, desperate for a touch.
She sits up, the cool cotton almost unbearably delicious against her heated skin. She leaves the oil for a moment and picks up the crop.
She rolls over, the pillows under her hips, her thighs and ass exposed. A light tap on her right thigh, a matching one on the left. Another pair, harder this time, the skin on her thighs heating as she strikes them. A curl of sensation deep in her cunt echoes each strike, dampening her panties.
She wriggles against the pillows, trying to reach the right place. She rubs, the motion faster and faster, but the pillows have too much give, are too soft and yielding. She starts to reach for the vibrator and stops herself.
“No, Miri, no cheating,” she says, then pulls the back edges of her panties up her ass, leaving the two cheeks exposed, pulling tight enough that now, when she rubs against the pillows, the silk against her anus, the pulled-tight silk against her cunt, adds an extra layer of heat.
The skin tingles as she smacks the crop lightly against her exposed cheeks. Craving more, she whips it hard and fast and the tingling turns harder and sharper, and she knows, if it weren’t for him, if he hadn’t ruined her, she’d be coming right now.
The heat radiates from her ass and she soothes it with the oil, cheating just a little by tugging at the panties. She rolls back over, the cotton abrasive against the now-sensitive skin of her thighs and butt.
She wiggles down in the bed, her hips once again on the pillows, and finally touches her fingers to her inner thighs. The muscles jump; she can feel them as she massages the oil high on the thighs.
She is dripping with anticipation, the scent as luscious as late summer strawberries just before they turn too ripe to eat. She squirms, each sensation—the oil on her skin, the tingle of pain on the back of her thighs and her ass, the aching nipples, the throbbing in her cunt—heightened by the aroma.
She takes a cube of ice from the bowl, the cold water dripping through her fingers. She is panting now, the anticipation almost overwhelming. She touches the ice to her right nipple through the lace and arches into the sensation. She rubs the coldness around and around until she can hardly bear it, then moves to the left one. She alternates, rubbing each nipple until the ice has vanished and her cold fingers have replaced it.
She pinches first one and then the other, pulling the lace down, pushing up her breasts until she can see the rose-red nipples ripe and ready.
And then she leaves them standing stiffly, craving more, and reaches for another piece of ice. This once melts even more quickly against the heat of her labia. Even through the silk, the heat is so intense the ice melts in a moment. She reaches, again and again, for more ice until the silk is dripping wet and the cold has completely lost the battle with the heat.
Now, she thinks, and removes her bra and panties, sprawling naked on the bed, her ass on the pillows, her pussy throbbing. She reaches for the stimulating gel and loads a drop on her forefinger. Miri takes a deep breath and touches, slowly, gently, tenderly, her swollen labia. The sensation is exquisite, almost unbearable, and she spreads the drop over her lips, each movement a delight. The hard bud of her clitoris is next and she can feel the spiral beginning, feel the burn and the ache.
She rubs, gently at first, then harder. Harder again. Her inner muscles clench and Miri smiles. Finally. Her mind has stopped working and only her body is paying attention.
With her other hand, she reaches for the eggs and places them, one after the other, inside. She turns the dial to high, never once stopping the massage.
She is close, so close. Almost there, almost flying. Her legs are trembling, her arms shaking, her inner muscles clenching at the eggs, drawing them deeper, holding them in.
Twenty minutes later, Miri stops the massage and pulls out the eggs.
She smiles, this time sadly. She has gained an hour of distraction. She has forgotten Jack for that small period of time. It is almost enough.