Mister Tuesday Night: An Erotic Short Story

Mister Tuesday Night

 

An Erotic Short Story by Dee Valentine

 

 

c. 2012 Dee Valentine

 

 

 

Dinner is over, the dishwasher
loaded and set to run.  My husband lets the dog out while I wrap the leftover
meatloaf in foil and pop it in the massive stainless-steel refrigerator.  I
wipe down the granite countertop while he takes out the rubbish.  He returns
with the dog, pours kibble into her bowl, and sets the bag of dog food back in
the cupboard.  After quietly closing the cupboard door, he makes a minute adjustment
to the countertop canister set, turning the second-largest canister until the
word
sugar
is neatly squared, front and center. 

“Tuesday night,” he says.

“Tuesday night,” I echo.  “Book
club night.”

“Have a nice time.”  He gives me a vague
peck on the cheek and shuffles off to the living room to sit in front of his
fifty-inch Sony flat screen and watch
NCIS
.  The house is silent, spotless,
our daily routine cemented in place.  Like a one-act play that’s performed
nightly, each movement is choreographed, each line of dialogue practiced until
we could speak them in our sleep.

Except that tonight is Tuesday. 
Book club night.  The only ripple on the placid surface of our beige and
civilized life.

I pick it up, the latest hardcover
bestseller that I left prominently displayed on the kitchen counter this
morning.  The book serves as a form of shorthand, a non-verbal reminder that it’s
Tuesday, that once the dinner dishes are done, the rest of the evening belongs
to me.  A shiny laminated bookmark, with frolicking kittens and a pretty blue knit
tassel, is deliberately inserted after page 179.  Every Tuesday, that bookmark marches
forward, discreetly yet inexorably, ten or twelve pages.  I like to vary the
number.  Once, when I was feeling obscenely rebellious, I moved it thirteen
pages.  But twelve is usually as far as I’m willing to go.  After all, there’s
no need to rock the boat.

Outside, there’s a light, misting
rain.  I take my time walking to the car, enjoying the freshly-washed scent
that drifts on the air and the way the rain feels on my face.  I unlock my
little canary-yellow Mini Cooper and neatly place the book and my umbrella in
the back seat.  Did I mention that my husband hates yellow?  I sit in the car,
both hands gripping the wheel, and take a long, deep breath.  Slowly let it
back out.  And for the first time today, I smile.

Tuesday.  Book club night.

I’ve dressed carefully for tonight,
layers of soft silk beneath the conservative gray business suit, a quick spritz
of Obsession in that heated place between my thighs.  I drive across town, my
nipples hardening in anticipation as I think about what lies ahead.  Eager,
almost fearful that it will be over too soon, I remind myself that I'll have
two hours—two glorious hours—before the inevitable return to my own bland and colorless
life in the Real World.

I park my car discreetly behind the
shabby old motel, take out my umbrella, my purse, my book, and climb creaky
wooden stairs to the second floor and Room 219, the place I've been coming to
every Tuesday night for the past eight months.

I rap lightly on the door.  It
swings open, and there he is.  Mister Tuesday Night.  Sleek, muscled bare
chest, tight jeans, hair a little too long.  He stands with one hand on the
doorknob and one hip lowered, reminding me of that Eighties rock star whose
name I can never remember, the one who keeps getting arrested for drunken
driving.  Not the dissipated, graying guy whose mug shot was recently plastered
all over the Internet, but the sleek, young, shaggy-haired stud who could look
straight through the TV at you with those intense, hot eyes, and make you come
right there in your living room.

I'm old enough to remember that
guy.  He isn't.  If I mentioned the name, if I could even remember it, he would
look at me blankly.  He's younger than me, probably by a good ten years,
although I don't know for sure, since we've never discussed it.  Come to think
of it, we've never discussed much.  Our time together is limited, and we prefer
to leave real life outside the door, to better allow us to enjoy the fantasy
life we've created.

I don't even know his name. 

He opens the door wider.  I step
inside, close my umbrella and lean it against the wall, set the book and my
purse on the bed stand, and he locks the door behind me.

We met at, of all places, the dog
park, on a blustery February afternoon when nobody else was crazy enough to be
out there.  While my Lila and his Hercules romped and chased each other around
the fenced-in enclosure, we sat huddled together on a wooden bench and exchanged
polite, impersonal conversation.  When the cold became intolerable, we whistled
for the dogs, loaded them into the rear compartment of his Subaru wagon, and climbed
into the back seat.  There, on a city street in broad daylight, I fucked him for
the first time, frigid fingers fumbling clumsily, stiff from the cold, his
fingertips like hard, brittle cubes against my bare bottom.

Now, while his vivid blue eyes
study me, I stand before him, grateful that he sees a cougar where other men might
see an uptight, nervous, fortyish woman in a tidy little business suit, still
trim despite her years, every hair on her head tamed into terminal submission, her
inner butterfly screaming for release from the staid, antiseptic cocoon of her life. 
He reaches a hand behind me, pulls the pins from my hair, and tugs it loose. 
It tumbles down around my shoulders, and I toss my head to throw it back away
from my face.

And he smiles at me.

He doesn't ask questions.  He knows
I'm married; I wear a wedding ring.  Which is more than I know about him.  He
might be married or single; he could live with his mother, or he could have
five kids and a mortgage.  I don't know whether he digs ditches or teaches
philosophy.  Whether he lives on the "good" side of town or in a less
desirable neighborhood.  All I know is that he drives a Subaru Outback, he has
a Doberman named Hercules, and he takes my breath away.  It's all I need to
know.  I have a friend who works at the Motor Vehicle Registry who would be
more than happy to run his license plates for me.  Then I'd have all the
information I need to know about this man I've been having sex with for eight
months. 

I prefer the mystery.

I take a step forward and kiss his bare
shoulder.  Touch my tongue to his hot flesh.  That first taste of him, my mouth
on his body, leaves me wet and shaky and aching.  His smooth, broad chest is
like silk against my lips, my tongue.  He tastes of salt and warm, wonderful
man.  He cups the back of my head with extreme gentleness as I dip my mouth
lower, as I kneel on the carpet and unzip his jeans.  He's not wearing
underwear, and he's already fully erect, and my own excitement begins to soar.

His cock is big and thick and
beautiful, swollen, its blood-heavy veins pulsing in my hands.  With my tongue,
I tease the velvety tip, the most exquisite spot on a man's body, and feel a
primal female exultation when he groans in pleasure.  I have him at my mercy,
and his excitement starts a dull throbbing between my legs.  I lick a tiny drop
of pre-cum from the head of his cock, run my tongue down that swollen shaft,
hear his breathing start to thicken, feel his hands tangle in my hair as my
tongue moves back up to the head, circles it, and I take him slowly, ever so
slowly, into my mouth.

He groans aloud.  His grip on me
tightens as I take him deep, deep, so deep I fear I might choke.  We make
adjustments, find our fit, and then I begin moving my mouth slowly up and down
his cock, lips pressed against my teeth as a buffer.  I know what he likes,
know what it takes to excite him, and I tease him with my tongue, run it up and
down the silken hardness of his cock, circle the shaft, suck him gently, and
then not so gently, until he's thrusting his hips and moving in and out and
making guttural animal sounds in the back of his throat, and I'm so excited I'm
ready to come right along with him.  I know I've soaked through the new silk
panties I'm wearing, and I marvel at the irony of it, that I know exactly what
he needs sexually, yet I don't know whether he's left- or right-handed, whether
he prefers coffee or beer, whether he goes home after these little
tête-à-têtes, like I do, to a spouse who barely knows he's alive.

His hands, twisted in my hair,
guide me to move faster, deeper, harder, and the noises he makes grow louder,
and then with a cry he comes, in a noisy, shuddering burst that fills my mouth
with the warm, honeyed taste of salty musk and man.  I swallow his juices,
follow them with my tongue, lick his cock clean with each aftershock, and I'm
so hot and wet and excited now that I'm ready to fuck him, fuck him
right
now
, but it's too soon.  These things follow a pattern, and it's not yet
time for that.

He takes my hand and helps me to my
feet.  I stand there trembling, legs barely able to hold me up, as he unbuttons
my suit coat and chucks it to the floor, makes short work of my tailored
blouse, peels my bra straps down my shoulders and frees my breasts, those
heavy, aching breasts that are so desperate for the touch of a man.  He rolls
my nipples between his fingers until I almost scream from the pleasure, and
then he runs his tongue down my bare midriff.  By the time he dips it into the
hollow of my navel, I'm breathing so hard I'm nearly hyperventilating.

He guides me backward to the bed. 
I fall on my back on the mattress, my clothes a hot mess, my legs dangling over
the side of the bed.  He kneels between my thighs, shoves up my skirt and peels
off the forty-dollar virginal white lace panties I bought for the occasion. 
"Scoot down," he says hoarsely, the first words he's spoken since I
got here.  Heart hammering in anticipation, I align my bare bottom with the
edge of the mattress, and I almost laugh because for an instant, I'm reminded
of my gynecologist, asking me to slide down until I reach the end of her examining
table.  Then he lifts my legs over his shoulders, his hair tickles my inner
thighs, and I forget about laughing as he leans closer and buries his head
between my thighs.

And fucks me with his mouth.

I'm so excited already that I
nearly come the instant that soft, wet, insistent tongue touches my clit.  I
try to be quiet, but I can't.  I roll in ecstasy, make soft keening sounds in
my throat, as he licks and sucks and flicks with that magic tongue of his, this
beautiful young man who doesn't care that I'm beginning that slow slide into
middle age.  Somebody has taught him, and taught him well, and I buck and cry,
trying desperately to get closer, closer to the rapture I know is just a
heartbeat away.  I'm beginning to unravel, and then he slips his tongue into my
cunt, and
sweet Jesus
I nearly scream.  I grab huge fistfuls of the
bedding for ballast, edge closer to him, lock my thighs around him and grind my
pussy against his face, bathing him in my hot, wet juices as that tongue of his
alternates its sweet torture:  cunt, clit, cunt, clit, cunt, clit, and the
world drops away, and there's nothing but my clit and his tongue.  No breath,
no thought, nothing but the slick, exquisite glide of his tongue against my
most sensitive, most private place.

I come in a heated, screaming rush,
thrashing and tearing at the bedding, and now,
finally now!
still
kneeling on the floor between my thighs, he takes that big, thick cock of his
and drives it into me.  My legs still over his shoulders, he cups my ass and
lifts it right off the bed, and he fucks me hard and fast and rough, his hands
gripping me so hard I know I'll have bruises tomorrow, but this is how I want
it, how I like it, how I need it.  No whispered sweet nothings, no pretense of
love, just hard, hot fucking that takes me higher and higher, my cunt wrapped
tight around his huge cock, the high angle bringing his slick shaft into direct
contact with my clit, sweet, hot, exquisite friction until I'm gasping and
moaning and
dear God
rocking and twisting to the rhythm of his thrusts,
and then
nownownownownow!
we come together, hard and violent and noisy,
barely able to breathe, our appetites sated. 

For now.

Afterward, we cuddle naked in each
other's arms and, like old friends, take turns reading to each other from the
book I've brought.  We make it through eleven pages before our two hours are up
and I have to leave.  He lies on the bed and watches me dress, watches as I
take my hairbrush from my purse and pin my hair back up, smooth my skirt and
slip back into my shoes.

"Next week?" I say, book
tucked under my arm, umbrella at the ready.

"Next week," he says.

And I leave him.  We don't kiss
goodbye.  It's easier to avoid the temptations that such shows of affection
might evoke, easier to keep the mystery and the excitement alive by not
becoming too familiar.  I drive back across town through that wonderful light
rain, tired, achy, sticky from our shared body fluids, but loose and relaxed
and satisfied for the first time since…last Tuesday.  He's the glue that holds
me together, the Prozac that keeps me from winding up in a rubber room.  Mister
Tuesday Night, my own private little book club, the man who rocks my world.

At home, I let out the dog, wait
for her to do her business, then open the door to let her back in.  I take one
last look out into the damp, velvety darkness, listen to the rain falling for a
few moments.  Then I flip off the porch light and lock the door.

Before I head upstairs to bed, I
pick up the book, open it, leaf through it slowly, tenderly, until I reach the
page where we left off.  I pull out the bookmark and move it ahead eleven
pages.  Close the book with a smile.

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