When the first spurt of seed coats the shower wall I grunt and grit my teeth, continuing to masturbate, not wanting it to be over. The hypersensitive flesh sends jolts of electricity into my brain, but I force myself on, imagining her riding me, moving up and down as I guide her wide, luscious hips.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, annoyed that I have to stop, her dark eyes still drifting open, closed, open, closed in my mind. “Fuck.”
I slam the water off, irritated now that it’s over. Imagining her isn’t enough. I need her in the flesh, I need to see her up close.
I’m a sick fucker, but I can’t stay away from her. I’m obsessed with the way her straight hair brushes her shoulders like a chocolate waterfall. I’m fixated on the way her leggings cling to the crevice where her thighs meet her pussy.
Storming through to my bedroom, I pull open the dresser drawer and grab my jogging pants and a warm sweater.
My obsession won’t subside until I’m next to her.
***
I can barely keep my hard-on under control, feeling like a total creep as I do circuits of the park just so I can keep getting glimpses of her as I run past. Her voice carries to me on the cold breeze, telling the kids to watch out for each other or to slow down, or remember what she told them about keeping their balance. It’s like she’s mom to them all, keeping them in check, and it makes me smile in a bittersweet kind of way.
Big families are something I’ve always kind of idealized. I’m the only child of a single mother, and I love her to bits but while she was at work I used to spend all my time at Greg’s, seeing the way he and his four brothers and two sisters fought and laughed and played together. Their house was a squeeze, but it always looked like love to me.
As for me? Lonely comes naturally.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like it. I’d love to have a family around me one day, but I just don’t ever see that happening. I work long, hard hours, and despite what I said to Greg about going out sometime, I’ll probably try to persuade him to make it a quiet one. I’m just not that comfortable around big groups of people.
“Amara, look at this!” One of the boys skates past her fast, and she laughs as he turns sideways, kicking up a spray of ice.
“Be careful, Bobby, I don’t want to have to explain to your mother why you have a broken arm.”
He giggles and sticks out his tongue, making her laugh even harder and chide him for being rude, but it’s half-hearted at best. It’s clear that she loves all those kids to bits, and I imagine her bringing up her own children. Our own children. She’d make the best mother, that’s for sure.
Amara.
It suits her. Beautiful, exotic. I imagine grunting it as I pound into her from behind and nearly run right off the path, distracted by that thought. A couple walking arm in arm laugh at me as I recover my concentration and continue jogging, but I don’t care if they laugh. I don’t care if everyone in this whole park laughs at me. She’s all that matters.
My lungs are burning, my legs feel like jelly, but I want to keep running. Every glimpse I get of her makes it all worth it. As I make another circuit, reaching the opposite end of the ice rink, I sneak a peek her way just in time to see her crouching down to help one of the kids who’s fallen, and get a full view of that round ass as her short coat pulls up, grunting to myself, not with the effort of running but the effort of holding back the cum that’s threatening to fill the inside of my boxers.
Then, as she straightens back up, her brown eyes dart my way. The eye contact nearly kills me, but it’s the tree that comes out of nowhere.
Chapter 2 – Amara
My heart stops.
I feel like a deer caught in headlights, frozen, stunned, unable to look away or move as our eyes meet across the rink. I can’t believe Mr. Blue Eyes is actually looking right at me. Me? I glance around behind, in case there’s someone there and he’s not looking at me at all, but there’s no one. He’s looking at me.
He’s really looking at me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve spotted the man with the striking, blue-gray eyes, but it’s the first time I’ve caught his eyes. I’ve watched him jogging around the rink ever since the first time I came here, and part of the reason I’ve kept coming back is with the hopes of spotting him again, of getting glimpses of the peaks and valleys of his abdominal muscles when he lifts his shirt to wipe his brow, of spotting the bulge in the front of his jogging pants as it shifts with each long stride, of watching his ass as he runs past, shifting beneath the heavy fabric.