Drivers Even Dispel the Delivery
“Ugh, not again“, she thought as her knees unbuckled and she collapsed back on to the couch. “I just want him to be happy and move on but Jesus he is here every day.” Brandishing an emery board she rasped the tips of her nails, casting off the dead skin. “I really do not know what I want. I am so confused.” Without looking down at her digits she organized the shapes in the ceiling paint, perpetuating figures and a mental checklist of desirable outcomes. “Nanny- check, new apartment- got it, new job- found it, old job- quit. Well, almost. God I think the only reason I am keeping that job is for the sex.” Her cognizance shifted to her self-care plan which consisted of a pedicure.
She started having sex with the muscles at work after he distanced himself the first time. She created a plot in her mind that he was not committed enough to give her the baby she had earlier convinced herself she needed. Damn she would have just gone through with her convoluted scheme of impregnation with him or anyone, just to keep someone around to help but all of the new things in her life motivate to just really move on.
She thought she still had feelings for him and maybe they could work through all the difficult times but really that sounded like so much work. “Fuck.” Her head fell back with a thud against the wall. “Fuck Fuck!” She pondered on the words for a moment while the pulsing in her brain muscles lessoned. “That is what he was.” Muscles would take her in the back and really fuck her brains out on the storage room couch. Why else would there be a couch in the storage room? The muscles, oh the muscles, they made it an ease to glide down and up against her labia, separating her lips enough to penetrate deep into the vagina and press against her clit. She had been doing it, them, the muscles- so much lately that every time her husband came around, the lack of an adrenaline rush from fear of getting caught was numbing. Not to mention the boring angle of missionary style sex or the cum stained sheets, just, was not thrilling anymore. Was she lying to her emotions for this muscle fuck of a lay at work or was she really through with it all and moving on?
Usually she wasn’t attracted to the muscles. “They were all brawn and no brains”, she would always tell herself. A neo-chemistry major and in need of mental stimulation during school she was perhaps finally glad to be getting her $54,000 brains fucked out like this. She was worth it. No sweat. No grunting. No effort expended.
She caught site of herself in the mirror while muscles was banging her hard rising to the peak of an orgasm from behind. She had already came and loved it hard and rough from behind while her partner jammed his way to climax hitting her, banging her, piercing the back of her box wall. She glanced up and saw in the mirrors reflecting this action and noticed her breasts. “They’re smaller now.” Her diet was shit and when working at a gym there was nothing to do when the rage took over but exercise, run for miles, lift weights like a champion. Or swim the English channel of aggression choking on the wetness as she came up for air.
His wetness shot on her back between shoulder blades, hot and runny over her sides down to her nipples. She looked in the mirror. “They really look like cows utters now, don’t they? That is me; saggy, breast fallen from child births and breast feeding, lapsing and swinging like two half pint sack pendulums of flour, dangling like cow utters.” She lost it but gave a hushed squeal for muscles as if she hadn't, flexed a couple of kegle maneuvers and quickly redressed.
That night when she arrived back home he was there waiting for her to go out to dinner. He knew she would be home at 9:30 so he got in early and ordered from their favorite pizzeria, the place where they worked while going to school. Sometimes those memories were nice. Everyone was overtly flirtatious but if they knew what she had been doing lately they would probably blush. They had moved to marriage and surpassed the minimum wage work perks. None of those things they said back then were real. Sure they and co-workers alike all joked about taking each other into the freezer and having their way with one another but it was all just talk. In her mind it was a prelude to what she could really do in the spare time instead of staring over the heat vapors rising from the ovens. The ovens were warm. The cum on her back earlier was hot, she was thinking when they arrived in the parking lot of the pie place. “My breasts are small now aren’t they?”
“Maybe, but they are so goddamn great,” he replied fairly casually, as if this programmed response was something she wanted too. He remembered fooling around near the salad supplies years earlier.
“Don’t you think they look like cows utters when I am on top of you?”
“I don’t know. When you are on top I am always thinking about your ass. I love the way it feels when I hold onto your hips and push up into you. I finger your hole and wipe your juices on my thighs. I especially love the way they look when I peer up at you while I’m eating you out. The way they spread across your chest and open up that soft smooth skin around your neck. God I wish I could crane my neck down and suck on your nipples while I’m on top.” He finally paused to breathe. “How could you say they look like cow utters?”
While trying to grasp the physical perspective of what her husband had just described it dawned on her, next to the muscles at work, she was still a waif against the build. She was not the typical chick she saw hanging onto arms larger than their waists. She remembered the couch in the storage room. She thought of an arm bigger than her waist and furthermore the body attached. She thought of the protein shakes. She imagined the muscles pounding the flesh wrapped sticks of the pin ups. She imagined the slender pin ups on the wall. She thought of the couch in the storage room and the high protein shakes and the muscles and the pin finger pin-ups and couldn't see it. She saw their perfect little wives lives and wished for a strap on. She felt like an overweight loaf who worked herself into a saggy skinned sleekness by rather literally running her ass off. Something she decided, was just a fantasy fuck.
"It would never work out." She said out loud. Even next to her husband she lacked the coy half smile that his woman would wear with frog skin frames in magazines ads and paperback fashion shoots. That is what he needed. Someone with intellect and style. Someone who would tease his brain as much as his cock and swell them both to mammoth proportions before he gave into sexual urges that were more or less superfluous annoyances to his studies. He needed someone with enough magnitude to grasp his attention strong, teach him some new tricks and then cram out an orgasm so squeaking loud he would finally understand the meaning of life, existence and all the lyrics of Lisa Loeb and frustrations of Kazu Makino. Even next to this person she felt small and insecure. She would let him stay the night though. He recognized that she needed a better diet and although it wasn’t a plate of vegetables, it contained all of the basic food groups. For her it was more important at the time as a comfort food. A painfully nostalgic meal that reminded her of who she really was and the supposed “good times” that she really might have been a part of at one point in her life, no matter how attached to the thoughts of the sexual temptress.
In the bedroom she confessed. “I’m just tired.”
“Maybe it is those pills you are taking.”
“That and I really am just tired. Jesus, I am so busy now. I never have time for sleep. Can I be on top for a minute?”
“Sure,” he agreed.
Usually, before the muscles, she would have had an orgasm by now. There were only those occasions when she was on her third or fourth multiple, when it produced a difficulty to climax. They got creative and found the best position. She would make it shortly after the switch.
She must be wondering too, why hadn’t he jizzed yet? Usually if they went for that long, whether she was going to make it or not, she would get close and he could feel that in her. It was such a turn on for the both of them he would lose it two pushes away from a simultaneous grasping of the great hormone release.
She thought she felt him close and a little less weary that he had shot a load into the toilet again or worse was cheating on her, she set aside the real sleep deprivation she was feeling and mounted him for one more attempt.
“So why do you think your breast look like utters?” he asked.
“What? Ugh, not again.”
She rolled off him and buried her face into the pillow.
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