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+--- Thread: The "One Minute Special" (fiction) (/thread-14254.html)
The "One Minute Special" (fiction) - brianveggie - 01-06-2017 07:32 AM
John and Nancy were in the master bedroom having a playful tug of war. Nancy was trying to put on her pantyhose, but John was sabotaging her efforts in a Peter Pan sort of way. She finally broke away from him and managed to pull her pantyhose into place. She put on a dress, and then began to put on earrings, a belt, and make-up.
John had woken up with morning wood, so his effort to thwart the donning of her pantyhose had a higher purpose. Nancy meanwhile had mistakenly thought that her husband had given up. She was about to slip on her heels when John surprised her from behind. “John, we can’t”, Nancy said; “I’m already dressed.” John paused for a few seconds and then said: “Okay…I won’t…undress…you”.
That bastard, she thought. She knew what was coming, and she immediately felt herself starting to get wet. She reached for the tissue box, and John knew that his wife was giving him the green light. She pulled out several tissues and made them into a makeshift panty liner. She reached inside of her pantyhose to try to put the tissues into place.
She pushed the tissue pad onto the panty portion of her pantyhose just as he began to slide the pantyhose down. Not all the way, just down to the end of her ass cheeks. Here we go she thought, the “one minute special”. He nuzzled her neck and whispered, “Ready?”; she affirmed with a hissing yes.
He looked down at his wife’s beautiful ass and sexy pantyhose, feeling his member stiffen up a little bit more. He gently entered her; God she was wet, and he was able to slide right in. She gasped and braced herself against her dresser. He didn’t move in and out; he found that special place in her vagina that felt so wonderful to her, and aimed for it. When he was in place, he began to rotate without thrusting.
She felt like her mother’s old Westinghouse Laundromat when it went into its spin cycle. Oh, yes that felt good. She could feel her arousal building; but how would they have time to finish? As if reading her mind, he reached for her clitoris with one hand, and her breast with the other. Now we’re talking, thought Nancy. Her arousal felt like a roller coaster going up the first lift hill.
Then she started to hear “Twist and Shout” begin to play, on the internal radio station in her head. The Beatles version; the one that built like an orgasm: almost…Almost…ALMOST. Her hubby was playing her, like a flamenco guitarist.
Instead of using a single finger or two to stimulate her clitoris, John used all four of his fingers. He tried to position his hand so that her magic button was lined up between his two middle fingers, more or less. That way, he stood a much better chance of rubbing her boy in the boat in just the right spot. Not content to let his thumb hang idly by, he used it to caress the soft flesh to the left of the action area. He had once read that a woman’s entire body was an erogenous zone.
His stimulation of his wife’s left breast (her more sensitive one) was decidedly more complex. He shaped his thumb and index finger into a formation that resembled a letter “C”. Using this shape, he twirled her nipple like the station selector knob on an old-fashioned radio tuner. He used his remaining three digits to half-cup her breast; the middle finger and pinky sort of held the breast in place, whilst the ring finger moved in a stroking motion.
Nancy thought that her husband had adapted his technique from piano exercises, where you held down certain keys whilst playing notes using the fingers in between the fingers that were keeping the keys fully depressed. In reality, John had seen a cat owner clamp his entire hand around his cat’s head, making the cat’s head a virtual prisoner of this unusual restraining device. A restraining device that was actually alive.
The four outer fingers didn’t move at all, and John wondered if this guy was going to torture his own cat. Instead, the cat owner used his middle finger to gently pet the exact middle of the cat’s head, while keeping the other four fingers firmly clamped around the head, making it immobile. That cat didn’t move a muscle; nothing at all. Even the cat’s tail was completely still, including the very end of the tail, which usually moved a teensy bit even when the cat was happy. This cat closed his eyes in ecstasy, and savored every delicious molecule of sensuous pleasure that was being provided by this insane methodology.
John was hitting all the rights spots at just the right tempo. She let him know by telling him not to stop. Then John, Paul, and George started to stack up their vocal harmonies, as Nancy simultaneously pushed toward orgasm. The tempo of the Beatles harmonies slowed way down, matching Nancy’s own pace as she climbed the stairs to ecstasy. Each added note provided the soundtrack to Nancy’s own inner dialog.
Tonic…Ohhhhh, my goodness…(exhale)…(exhale). Tonic & Third…Oh, I think I’m close to coming…(exhale)…(exhale). Tonic, Third & Fifth…Oh, I’m so close…(exhale)…(exhale). Third, Fifth & Seventh. Them the music faded, as her feelings drowned them out. Out loud, Nancy gasped, “I’m going to come”.
John continued to stimulate her breast and yet somehow managed to move his shoulder toward his wife’s mouth. Nancy turned her head gratefully into his shoulder to muffle her cries. At the last second, the music came back: Fifth, Seventh, and…SCREAM! BLAMMO, BANG, over the edge she went! Her orgasm burst into being like the grand finale at a fireworks display.
Nancy pressed her mouth into her husband’s shoulder, which made her cries of pleasure sound like she was trying to talk under water: MMmmph…MMMmmmph…MMMMMMPH…oh…my…god. The last three words came out as a whisper on top of an exhalation, caused by a need to finally breathe combined with the withdrawal of her mouth from her husband’s shoulder.
With a strangled gasp, John said, “Grab the dresser, honey”. Nancy tried to balance herself as John pulled out of her, and pointed his penis at their bed. “I’m going to come,” he whispered, and then, feeling his cock recoil, he spilled his happy load on the sheets.
Nancy could never get over how quiet John could be when he came. As her orgasm subsided and she came back to earth, she was grateful that John had pulled out and ejaculated on to the bed instead of inside her vaginal barrel. He had spared her a lot extra moisture. It was wet enough in her flower garden already, and she did not have time to change her pantyhose.
She stood at her dresser for a few seconds, trying to catch her breath. Her dress had fallen back down, and she felt the strange sensation of her bare ass rubbing directly against the inside of her dress. Meanwhile, everything south of that was slipping and sliding around because 75% of her legs were still covered in pantyhose.
Having finished expelling his load, John collapsed to his knees and felt the plush carpet soften the fall. He turned back towards his wife, just in time to see her quickly pull her pantyhose back into place. In a breathy manly whisper, he exclaimed, “Oh my God you’re sexy”. She turned around and regarded her beloved husband. She broke into a smile and a blush, and released a contented sigh. She then leaned over, held his head tenderly in her hands and gave him a not too quick kiss.
She stepped into her shoes. She looked at the clock to discover that a mere seven minutes had passed. She rushed off to the kitchen in a decidedly euphoric mood.
As John caught his breath, he reflected on how much he hated it when porn movies showed the guy pulling out to shoot his load. To John, it was the porn industry’s feeble attempt to shout to the world “See? He’s shooting his load. He’s having a real orgasm. This couple is having real sex, and this is how we prove it to you. See?”
The only time he ever pulled out was for their “one-minute specials”. He knew his wife wouldn’t have time to change her pantyhose. Nancy wasn’t wearing panties under her pantyhose this morning, and he knew that gravity would create a slow cascade causing both his sperm and her own juices to spill onto panty portion. John also knew that the cotton crotch panel, and her homemade panty-liner of tissues weren’t going to be enough to hold it all in.
Years ago, they had gone to a dinner party after one of their “one-minute specials”, and he never forgot his wife’s discomfort. On this occasion, she hadn’t brought a spare pair of pantyhose with her. No matter how many times she went to the ladies’ room to wipe herself, it just wasn’t enough to dry her undergarments properly.