Novakovich Exercise
Two Novakovich Exercises
She didn't love him. Somewhere, deep inside of her, she had always known it. He, on the other hand, remained blissfully unaware of her predicament. At the moment, he was carefully peeling back layer after layer of her clothing, leaving kisses behind. She didn't even notice. All she could think was 'why am I having sex with-' His hand had trailed down to her panties, the only garment she still had on and his fingers traced light circles against them. Ah yes, now she remembered. He seemed to know just how to touch her, and, without fail, he always left her satisfied.
Still, she felt a bit guilty. It was one thing to be with a man she was in love with, quite another to be with a man for purely physical satisfaction. For all she knew, he was madly in love with her and thought she felt the same. Distantly she felt his hand slide upwards, over her abs, over her ribcage, to lightly cup a breast. Gently he stroked it and, for the first time, she wondered what she was really doing. The rational part of her brain eagerly supplied an answer, and a subsequent solution. Both of these were immediately dismissed because his hands had begun traveling again.
Unconsciously, she tensed, her hips tilting forward. He was above her, supporting himself on his knees and one hand while the other hand trailed over all the exposed places on her body. He was topless but he had left on his tight blue jeans and a wicked grin. With a pain-staking slowness his hand trailed from her collarbone, past her bellybutton, and down one thigh. Finally, he pushed himself up on his knees and gently removed her panties, which he tossed to the floor.
He resumed his caresses. Her mind was shutting down, closing shop, heading home for the weekend. She couldn't think past the soft touches and kisses that he scattered on her flesh. All notions of guilt she might have had went out the open window alongside the bed, into the warm summer breeze. His sensual assault on her body was all she could think about.
With on hand still petting her he reached down and slipped the other hand between her thighs, gently forcing them apart far enough to get one of his legs between hers. His calloused fingertips on the soft flesh of her inner thighs trailed fire in their wake, and she gasped as he brushed ever so lightly over her clitoris. She arched on the bed, and thoughts of spontaneous combustion flitted through her brain. His wicked grin broadened, and he brushed her clitoris again.
And again, he touched her, more insistent this time. Her hips rose of their own will, brushing her vulva against him, denim on flesh. Again and again, he touched her and she arched, moving further and further away from reality, closer and closer to the edge of an explosive orgasm. Then he stopped, but only long enough to shed his jeans and boxers. Before she even knew it he was naked and he was between her legs, touching her gently, keeping her high in the clouds.
And then he had pushed himself into her, and she squirmed at being invaded so fully. Slowly, he pulled himself out, then back in with the same delicious languor. He set their pace and she eagerly followed. Empty and full, over and over, faster and faster they went, filling the room with a heavy musky smell, sweat beading on their flesh, eliciting moans and small noises from each other. So close, she told him, oh God, don't stop.
He kept going. She tensed, all over, every muscle screaming, taunt, like a bit of leather stretched over a drum. He kept going. Muscles shaking now, arched on the bed, so close, almost there, just a little further.
Oh, Mike, oh God, she moaned, clinging to him as she exploded, shattered, fell back to the bed. Above her, Robbie froze.
He stepped through the front door of the apartment, tired and ready to relax. He already had it planned, had planned it on the train ride home. He'd sit down on the couch, cold soda in hand, and watch the TV for a while, maybe even grill some burgers for dinner. That was until he stepped through the front door. The windows were open, thrown wide to let in the small summer breezes. Nothing looked particularly out of place; there were no dirty dishes in the sink; no books or videos off of their shelves.
There was, however, a pale blue tank top lying in a puddle just inside the door. A few feet away, in another puddle, in the middle of the room, was a pair of jean shorts. Suddenly, an image of long-gone college days filled his mind. Back then, before he and Meredith had gotten so involved in their jobs. Before they had begun to fight incessantly. Before he had started to sleep on the couch and she alone in the bedroom. Back then, when he would frequently come back from class only to find her waiting on their tiny bed, naked except for her lacy bra and panties.
Somehow, he was no longer tired at all. Instead, a bolt of eagerness shot through him. Heat flooded his groin, and he swelled, his pants tightening uncomfortably. For a moment he wondered why she had chosen now, wondered what had changed between them to prompt this. He pushed the thought aside. If she was willing to forgive and forget, well then, he was too. And if this was the way she wanted to make-up, he sure wasn't complaining.
He set his briefcase down by the door, and shed his jacket, leaving it on one of the kitchen chairs. Next came his shoes and socks, which he left on the tiled kitchen floor. There was already a bottle of wine open on the island in the kitchen with a clean wine glass next to it. He smiled, and poured himself a glass. She was really pulling out all the stops, he was really going to enjoy this. He chuckled as he thought of past pleasures and the ones still to come.
Still sipping his wine, he slipped his tie over his head and began to unbutton his shirt. In a matter of a minute he was down to his pants only, and he was more than ready to join Meredith in the bedroom. He topped off his wine and left the kitchen. Back in the living room he paused to take a large sip of his wine and stepped up to the closed bedroom door.
Just inside she's waiting for me, he thought. His pants tightened a bit, imagining her laying there, so much skin to touch. He tugged at his belt, pulling it through the belt loops on his pants leaving it just outside the door. His pants joined it a few seconds later.
Through the door he could hear small cries. She had started without him. He wanted to be upset but the soft sounds of her sighs and the thought of what she must be doing cajoled him, aroused him, and pulled him closer to the door. He placed his palms on the wood and imagined he could feel the vibrations of her moans through the door.
More moans, frantic now, and his hand clenched around the doorknob, ready to turn it at any moment. The only thing that stopped him was the exquisite thoughts of what she was doing. His imagination was racing, blood pumping hard in his veins, breathing heavy. Now his erection was bordering on almost painful, and all rational thoughts had abandoned him. Oh Mike, oh God! He heard, muffled through the door.
He lost it. Hearing his name on her lips as she panted and moaned he couldn't help himself. He turned the doorknob and pushed the door inward.
There on the bed lay his wife, naked as the day she was born, looking dazed and satiated. And there, between her legs, frozen mid-thrust, was Michael's best friend, Robbie, looking stunned and confused. Meredith had just called out his name while screwing his best friend. In his pants, his erection wilted at lightening speed.