amateur

May 5th dawned clear and cool in Clemmons, North Carolina. From her still dark bedroom, she shuffled out into the kitchen, wrapping her winter robe around her and numbly registering some internal protest about the chill. Snapping on the rack of lights above the range she distractedly set about making the morning coffee.

She flicked at a celebrity gossip magazine while the room filled with the dark and heady aroma of the brew. Without even looking, she poured herself a cup, black, no sugar, and sipped at it absently as she snapped through the pages filled with fairy tale weddings, earth shattering divorces and pictures of Britney’s hoo-ha.

She hated celebrities. Nicole Kidman – skinny no talent bitch. Tom and Katie – he’s queer, she’s fucking crazy. Paris Hilton. Fuck. Let’s have three kids before you’re 23 sucking on those precious little titties and see how many column inches you get. Each page she turned got a contemptuous flick, until the coffee was drained and she pushed the magazine away with her index finger. She raised her eyes and looked down the gloomy, half-dark hallway. She’d have to wake him up. It was showtime.

She dialed the radio off WTQR and down to WZTX. He hated country music and never failed to pitch a fit if she didn’t change the station after she’d been listening. But that was pretty much where he was at, he had no idea what it meant to her, where it took her back to. She walked down the hallway, wrapping the robe double tight around her and snapped on the bedroom light. He’d slept through the alarm again, Bon Jovi making a god-awful racket, and him snoring like a bastard, arms and legs akimbo.

She looked at him for a moment in the thin, muted glow of dawn. He was still a handsome man, after a fashion. He still had that little boys face, those huge shoulders, that half cocked grin she fell in love with what seemed like a lifetime ago. His muscular legs poked out from under the comforter at odd angles –she wondered why he hadn’t woken with the cold, and she traced the line of them up. She wondered if he had one of his legendary morning hard-ons. She was tempted for moment to find out, but she had work to do.

“Rise and Shine, honey. Day’s all a’ wastin'” she hollered in her best country girl voice. He woke with a start and sat bolt upright. She was right – a red and raging erection. She suppressed a smile, He swung out of bed and padded past her towards the bathroom, taking no particular pains to either hide or show off his outthrust dick. She winced as it brushed her going past – for God’s sake man, cover up before the kids see you.

So he ate, not a word passed between them – apart from his derisive grunts at the talk radio host, until he kissed on the forehead goodbye and lit out on his drive up to Waughtown. She tidied, she took the hamper down to the laundry until, one by one, the boys – Robbie, 12, Natty, 10 and Little Stevie , 7, emerged and noisily set about demolish her freshly tidied kitchen- brawling, shrieking, spilling cereals and sloshing milk and juice over counters. Little Stevie read falteringly from a book about a boat and a menagerie of animals that tried to climb aboard it, and she half paid attention, as Robbie and Natty wrestled on the couch.

And the morning dissolved around her and the school busses came and went . She went into the bedroom, took off her robe and folded it neatly onto the chair beside their bed. Quickly, almost
shamefully, she slipped out of her nightdress and into her day clothes – a white T, shapeless blue jeans. She stopped to put her chestnut hair into a pony tail and glanced briefly at the outline of her breasts through the cotton of her shirt – just a brief sideways peek, and then she turned and walked smartly out of the bedroom, into the rhythm of her day.

Beds straightened, dishes washed, an hour and a half passed while the wash went through it’s cycles and she vacuumed the living room rug. She stopped, just after 10, for another cup of strong, black coffee. Then, after washing the cup out, she went into the bedroom, hovered momentarily, and took out a camel-colored blanket from the camphor wood chest at the foot of the bed and two oversized, plum colored pillows from her bed. She struggled a little as she pulled the unwieldy assemblage up the hallway, onto her bright, warm toned living room.

She lay them on the couch and walked over to close the blinds. The day had started to warm up, so she picked up the remote for the AC and stabbed at the green “on” button.  Some hat crooned on the radio and she shook her hips in a little, half hearted dance. She took a cushion off the loveseat, tossed it absently on the floor, thought better of it and repositioned it. She lay the blanket over it and doubled it and setout the two large pillows at the end away from the windows. She peeled off her T shirt, kicked away her house scuffs and slipped out of her jeans. She folded her clothes neatly and lay them where the cushion was missing. She lightly walked over to the mahogany lamp table in the far corner of the room, feeling the nip of cool air on her body, and took her slim Panasonic camera from the drawer.

She sat for a moment on the arm of the loveseat, adjusting the camera, then set it on the side table. She quickly stripped off her lilac panties and tucked them away with the rest of her clothes. She set the timer on the camera, and lay stomach down on the improvised bed of the camel blanket.

She breathed out slowly, trying to imagine the room full of sandalwood and bergamot. The camera, set to take a picture every 30 seconds, flashed absently. She slid her left hand underneath herself, working it down her belly. She parted her legs, raised her hips and let her hand slip though. She used her smooth fingers, with the long, rose-colored nails, to spread her ass, as the camera blinked again. She took her hand away and gave the boys a glimpse of her fleshy but smooth pussy for the next shot….

As the camera clicked away, she began to warm to her work, rolling over, playing the coquette, the vixen, the Madonna, the whore. She clutched at her stomach, her fingers spread dramatically to contrast her pink nails on her pale, blue-veined skin, bucking her hips and pouting her lips, tearing at her and mussing up hair and trying to let some of the wildness she felt pent up in her into the photos. She touched herself, stroked at her herself, worked her fingers into herself, all the time looking to be someone or something other than who she was. She threw herself over the ottoman, splay legged, inviting the camera gaze at her.. She writhed and contorted herself until she was flushed and feeling numb within and she slumped sweating onto the rug. The camera flashed obediently, capturing even her spent and delirious afterglow.

She sat in the kitchen, sipping her coffee, looking through the shots she had taken, admiring herself not for her beauty but for her courage. Careless she glanced at her watch. She gave a start. There was still so much work to be done. Where did the days go?

Photobucket

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This entry was published on 12/08/2006 at 1:47 am and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

One thought on “amateur

  1. I like the style you took with this topic. It isn’t often that you just find a subject so to the point and informative.

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