Private Eyes    F, mast, satire



       Click, click with the mouse button.  Page after page of images
skimmed along before her eyes: boys.  Some of age, others so close to
reaching their timbre she could almost taste the sap slipping down
along their breastbones.  Soft chests, warm and broad.  They reminded
her of her teenage years, backseats and cloudy windowpanes, wishing
she'd told her parents she'd be home an hour later than her original
promise.  Hands against the glass, face pushed into the back of a
leather seat, all orgasm waiting to turn over.  So long ago, so long
before her marriage.

       Some of the men in the photos smiled broadly at her.  Others
brooded, eyes sad as their penises cried thick tears of semen.  A few,
restrained at impossible angles, made her laugh a little.  My, how
that must feel, she thought.  Such lovely bodies, such pain, such
power.  A warm breeze lifted the white, translucent curtain from the
window, fluttered it, let it drop back down.  She hiked her pale blue
linen skirt up a little and ran her palm along the inside of her
thigh, stroking against the garter belt straps and humming lightly to
herself as the images filled her screen.

       Click, click with one hand.  Light brushing with the other.  A
song came to her, one that often came when she was alone with the
machine and the boys again.  When she'd first heard it, the words of
it frightened her.  Offended her.  Over time they'd ticked themselves
against her imagination, basting her slowly in its yellowed fantasy.

       She would sing it more slowly than its original tempo, almost a
lullaby, rocking herself.  "We-hell-I see them every night in tight
blue jeans in the pages of a blue boy magazine..."  Barely above a
whisper.  She didn't want the children to hear her.  Her hand slipped
higher up her thigh, pulling the skirt tight against her hips.  "Hey
I've been thinking of a new sensation...  I'm picking up...  good
vibrations..."  The words of it moved her, warmed her southern
regions, swamped her.  She eyed the pictures from under half-closed
lids as her fingertips brushed the silk of her underpants.  Blue-eyed
men returned with stony looks, oozing libido from every pore.  She
slid down in her chair so that her pelvis clung to the edge of it and
her chin came forward, hair in her eyes.

       This time she sang to the screen.  "Do I wanna go out with a
lion's roar?  I wanna go south and get me some more..." her lips
parted on the word "more" and she licked against them with her tongue.
Slowly she eased her panties off and pulled her knees further apart.
Warm air kissed against the soft hair between her legs, her unadorned
scent rising through the afternoon.

       Finally she settled on an image she liked, a slender man with
tanned skin and a bleached, gentle smile.  As he reached for his
pleasures in the still image, so she sought her own.  She let go of
the mouse and imagined him watching her as her fingers circled ever
closer, ever closer, ever closer.  Laughter encircled her voice as she
softly sang, "Hey, they say that a stitch in time saves nine.  They
say I better stop," laughter again, "or I'll go blind..."  Her eyes
fell shut.

       With her mouse hand she reached up and unbuttoned the crisp
silk blouse, opening it so that it slid back against her shoulders,
down her arms.  Then her bra, unhooked in the front with one smooth
motion, fell to either side and she toyed with one nipple, then the
other.  Even after years of nursing three beautiful children they were
still supple, sensitive, and oh -- a pinch and a shiver ran down her
spine.  She swayed into the movements of her hand on her pelvis, blunt
and smooth, pushing the sensations further within.

       Dizzy, she slid completely from the chair and removed her shirt
and bra, pulling the skirt up and out of the way.  She slid two
fingers deep inside her, aware of the deep rhythmic pulsing of her
blood.  With her other hand she reached behind and found the secret
places there, the ones so few people ever mentioned.  Her nerves
screamed with pleasure.  She bit her lip to try and keep quiet, still
humming the melody to herself every so often.  With every motion her
fingers plunged deeper and deeper into her, and she had to gasp for
air.

       Suddenly she thought she felt a tongue on her -- tasting,
probing, noticing her smells and flavors and her vulnerable position
on the pale carpeting.  She didn't open her eyes yet, but between his
unhurried sipping she heard his voice finishing the last verse of the
song, cooing as softly as she had been.  "They say I better get a
chaperone," he mumbled, "Because I can't stop messin' with the danger
zone."  Gentle licks turned more persistent.  "No, I won't worry, and
I won't fret -- ain't no law against it yet..."  The tension built
inside her and she cried, "Al, Al, Al..."

       "You know how I love to watch you," he whispered, gasping for
air between her heavy thighs.  "Love to watch you work..."  Spasm.
She bucked against his lips and tongue and her own fingers, tangled
and cramped as they were, then fell limp against the floor.

       "Tipper," he said, laying a hand against her rounded belly.
"Tipper, you all right?"  He pulled up next to her, his expression
never once changing.  She opened her eyes sleepily and smiled at him.
She brushed his short brown hair away from his eyes as he laid a hand
in hers, scattered around her head.

       "Albert, hush," she said.  "Just load up the machine and find
something you like, and we'll do this all over again when you're
ready."  She grinned promisingly at him.  He nodded, nearly cracking a
smile, and sat down at the computer to search.

       Click, click with the mouse button....