– Horny Scene III: Dinner Party –

I’ve retreated to the foyer because I’ve nearly bitten through my tongue listening to the obnoxious asshole sitting in our dining room. “It will just be dinner,” my husband said when he invited his work wife and her boyfriend. “I want you to get to know her.”

Well she’s fine. But the prick she lives with… I rest my head against the cool of the front door’s sidelite and stare out at the front lawn, which wavers and blurs in the leaded glass. His massive truck hulks in the driveway, and I wonder how the guy who swears he ‘knows more about gay rights than I ever will’ squares his alleged liberal politics with the bottomless appetite the beast has for fossil fuels.

His laugher jabs from the next room. I can feel the disgusted expression on my face even though there’s no one here to read it. Well, except for the damned llama cat tree that the cat has literally never deigned to lay a paw upon. It offers no commiseration–just the same stupid expression immutably fixed to its face. I step into the kitchen to grab next bottle of chardonnay from the counter when I see the black Nike Blazers resting haphazardly by the patio door. His.

He had been playing with them earlier–loose and unlaced–as he rocked on the glider, popping the heel of his black ankle sock in and out of the tall collar. Back and forth, the stitched ‘Nike’ slipped over the bottom of his foot like an eager tongue. That and his sexy athletic build had made it easy to ignore what he said. But when the rain had driven us inside and he had kicked them off…well, it had been a most unfortunate turn in the evening. Until now.

I’m overtaken by the opportunity. I bring one to my face and hang my nose over the sock liner. The smell of the leather, a hint of fabric softener, and a tang of something yeasty make by body immediately sing. Suddenly I am desperate to mark my territory. To have myself all over his foot when he unknowingly plunges it in to leave.

Ignoring the llama as it stares placidly from the hall, I ease my shaft over the Blazer’s fat lip. I think about it revving the gas of that mammoth truck in the driveway while he loudly proclaims that he is the only one on the highway who knows how to drive. I think about him staring down at me, dumbfounded as I cream his foot. I think about him sitting at my Ethan Allen table right now, clueless as to what I’m doing. And at that, I cum hotly, silently, clenching my jaw. I feel my wicked ecstasy stream into his Nike, thick and ropy as it leaves me. It slides into the dark recess of the shoe. And waits.

I place the Blazer back with its mate, adjust my clothes, grab the chardonnay, and sweep back into the dining room. Now I really can’t wait for him to leave.