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pronounced.
           “I remember, Lynnie, you had that black catsuit, the one that looks like nothing but a shadow against your skin … and everything else ….”   He’s thinking of how my nipples showed right though and the pubic hair and glistening pussy … about my undulating hips as they swayed before his languid sex-starved eyes … and how when I’d bend over, my ass just inches from his face ... the slit in catsuit’s crotch would part and he could see me from my puckering anus to my pink wide-open labia … and how he’d tickle the clit and watch it contract and expand before his eyes.
           “Is she there.   Chelsea?” I moan softly as though I’m asking him to screw me.
           “Hummm …”
           “Tell me.”
           “I’m just thinking of you, hon, just you.”
           “I know she’s there …”   I hear the shuffling behind him “ … that’s why you’re moving from the bedroom into the den.”   I hear all the clicks of the doors and sense him walking through the house.   I know for sure the bitch is in my bed, wrapped in my sheets.   Where once the thought would cut me like a knife blade, now all that matters is that I have him while she lays oblivious to his arousal.   This one is mine.
           “Ah, Lynnie, you were talking about dancing …”   I hear him getting settled in the creaky leather chair.
           “Yes, I love dancing.” I return to reveries of old.   “I love flaunting my tits for you, moving them in front of your face so you have to reach to kiss them ...”
           He gasps as I smile.
           “You know, I think tonight I’ll dress up and go out on the street,” I start again … a fantasy I’ve told him a hundred times, it’s all in my devious mind and he’s been lured right into the pleasure palace in my head.
           “You on the streets, yes,” his groan’s so sweet … “and you’re wearing that tiny skirt that I bought you on the trip to New York.”
           “That’s the one, darling, and this new blouse, one that shows a daring cleavage, the kind you like to dive inside with your lips.”
           There’s no reply, just the sound of his heavy breathing.
    “I’ll meet someone while I’m out.”
           “Because you’re being nasty,” he thinks to answer.
           “Ooo, yes, he wants to fuck me right in the bar where we meet, and I don’t even know his name. You want to be there don’t you?”
           “Damn, I’d like to see you fucked.”   I can hardly hear him speak, his voice is so under his breath, as if in another part of the house the lights have gone on and he hears Chelsea stirring.
           “He has a ponytail, and beard, a tough guy in jeans … I’ll dance lewdly for this rough dude until his eyes can’t stand the tease any longer … and he finally takes me by the hand and leads me to the restroom … or better yet, an empty stairwell.”   The thought’s so fresh I can see my stranger in front of my face. “Think of him fucking me, Robby, fucking me … bending me over and putting his dick in my snatch.   Think of him crude, Robby.   He’s taking me hard so I can’t stop him … and you, you’re watching and getting hard … just like you’re hard right now.”
           His breath is deeper still, a groan escapes now and then.   Saying so little, I know he’s about to come.
           “He’s playing with my tits, his hands inside my blouse, messing with my clothes and skin. … then he tears away the blouse and I’m half naked in the back of the bar … in the stairwell … his cock in my cunt.”
           He’s breathing harder.   Robby’s hot.   I can almost feel his erection pulse before me, smell the aroma and taste the salty brine of male stuff on the skin.
           “Unnnnn, ahhhhh,” the guttural cry emerges, fueled from that somewhere between his legs