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Revealing Miranda (II)
by Kris Kennedy [This is the second part of "Revealing Miranda." If you missed Part I, it's alive and well and living in the archives. You can find it there. But for a shortcut, here is where we left off:
"She's walking away, the lower flesh of her ass cheeks rubbing together; I can just about see the ridge, where thigh becomes butt, beneath the tight cut-offs. And just before I think again about fucking Vicki and get broadsided by guilt, I watch the seam of Miranda's jeans cutting between her ass cheeks, hugging her crack, and I picture how in front it must be burrowing between her pussy lips, rubbing her hot little clit, like, all day, and I think, 'little animal.'"
Now for part II]

Guilt. Lust. Irritation. I'm having one of those emotional log jam moments, it breaks in on me like an explosion and then it's over, and I'm on my way to work.

There isn't much to the story of Miranda. She comes to do the yard work three times a week, usually on my work days. On weeks with holidays in them, she'll occasionally be around on the weekend. Vicki likes her and they do the girl talk thing I suppose. If I get home early, they'll occasionally be chatting over coffee. Or if Miranda's here on a Saturday, Vicki might invite her to stick around for barbecue or whatever. But I don't usually take much note of Miranda. I'm happy with Vicki, faithful -- boring as that may sound -- and besides, Miranda's not my type. You can keep your sun tanned beauties however tight their skin. I like flesh that gives. Spongy, succumbing, squeezable flesh. I like fair, snowy white girls with fat, moundy breasts that flush in embarrassed red patches when you get hold of them. Vicki does that. Flushes big time. Her neck gets that chevron shaped red streak, you know? And her breasts grow all pink. I like a woman with some meat on her pussy, so you can see it swell when you get it hot. Damn, I'm horny again. I can tell the hot summer weather has settled in.

Nah, I'm not like this all the time. Just when Vicki fucks me the way she did this morning. Takes a few hours to shake off the glow. That's the only thing about a morning fuck. No time to go around and around till both your genitals are hurting, rubbed juiceless, and you're sore in the lower pelvis from supporting yourself and slamming her. Yeah, come to think of it, we haven't done one of those marathoners in a while.

I get to the office and people are doing what they do. It's a little unreal how they talk to me -- do I encourage this kind of talk, I wonder. They'll be all joking or cutting up, and then I walk in and they're all coming up to me with accomplishments like when Robbie used to come home from kindergarten with his piles of "artwork" on recycled paper -- it always surprised me a kid could do so much drawing and coloring and stamping and gluing and cutting and finger painting in one day.

My employees, sometimes I want to shake them. But I finally simmer down, get that little fire out of my belly and act like a responsible CEO, talk to some of the development team, help them get their project back on track; have a meeting with some investors, do an interview for some publication.

You know, by the end of the day, I'm feeling good. A kind of satisfied good. I'm packing up my stuff to go home. The smell of stale coffee in my mug smells rank, a little -- swampy. It reminds me of a time. . . And you know what? Right in the middle of memory lane, I get this image of Miranda. I'm behind her and she's bent over the swimming pool. I mean bent like a jack knife, no shorts, no bikini bottoms, no nothing. It's just this split-second image, but it's long enough, I tell you, to see how her ass rounds up against the air like the warm breeze is fucking her, gently fucking her. And oh, yeah, from behind you bet I can see her little pussy hanging down -- man and it's like I can smell the juice all welling up in there -- and those pink folds saying "come right in behind me, daddy, and open me up."

Jeez. Man. I'm fucking hot. I loosen my collar. Can't go home like this. I'll be trying to jump Vicki like a dog with whiff of female in heat -- and Vicki won't exactly be thrilled. Not so soon. She won't want to fuck again so soon.

OK. That was a weird blip, and I'm over it. That was last week and this is this week. The world is different. Things are fast and hot and dangerous and thrilling at the office. We give someone the ax today. OK, I axed him last week, but today we actually tell him about it and take his fallout. It's sad at first, and then he says things that make me angry, and I'm glad to see him go. Afterwards, I feel like I just flushed a toilet.

Miranda is still around when I get home today, green plant stains over her bare arms, sweat trickling down the valley between her tight little breasts, and I just glance, and ho-hum. No reaction, really. And I'm indifferent to the fact that I have no reaction. Not all worried -- "Mi-god I'm losing my manhood. Or, why am I not turned on every second of every day like when I was thirteen?" -- like some of these middle aged whiners in the racket ball club. I pass Miranda with her rakes and clippers; don't think we even grunt at each other, either. Give Vicki a peck on the cheek, head for the shower. Man. When I think of how horny I was last week. And hot for the gardener! Sheesh. Vicki really knows how to stir up my testosterone.

But now, I'm really not aroused at all. That nasty business of the day, doing battle with a bad employee, even in victory, it drives me to the shower. Things are clean, steamy. . . I consider jerking off, but I really don't care to. I just stand there. My limp cock in my hand, stand there soaking up the steam. Breathing the steam. I must be in there for half an hour -- totally unconscious of the time. I towel off in that warm enervated daze, you know, sometimes, how a real hot shower just sucks the life out of you -- and having had that kind of day. I just hope I don't fall asleep before Vicki's got the meal up. Man, she'll kill me.

I walk across the rug, past the sliding screen door to our balcony, trying to stay clear of the bed, which is calling me. It's the pink time of day, when the sky shoots unfamiliar colors across open spaces. The smell of the cut lawn hits me -- I don't know -- like I'm breathing in life force, something in the air. Vital. And then I look down and there she is, lifting the bikini top up over her head, her breasts shaking free. I'm naked, but I don't think she can see me, the lighting in my house being darker than where she is. Do I look away? Of course not. I'm a little infuriated. Now, the kitchen is at the side of the house and Vicki's busy cooking and all, but still, this is very disrespectful. What's she doing. All the green and grass on this female animal's chest stops suddenly, right there where the bikini used to be. It's like there's this boundary circling her breasts, and inside the boundary, the world is clean, paler, softer. Oh and the plush deep brown rings around her nipples! I never knew how seductive -- this darkness, the color of scar, or of chocolate, as though a breast could be deeply hungry, that's the only way to describe it.

Her breasts look like they can't ever be complete without a strong mouth sucking on them. She's shaking her hair out and her breasts are dribbling, and the silver ring through one nipple swishes in the air. God, am I hard. Vicki's in the kitchen cooking for me, this animal bitch is strip teasing me, and I'm getting hard, I'm not looking away, I'm not yelling out the window to tell her, like hell she's going to skinny dip in my pool. Oh, no. You know why? Because my hand is on my fat, bobbing cock. Oh, yeah, wiping the slime that's been leaking now for god knows how long because there's a lot of it. Enough to give me chills as I rub it around my dick's reddening head.

The bitch is now running her hands across her breasts, plumping them so that the nipples bead up, damn her. She's doing this for me, I think. Oh, yeah. She knows I'm here.

Part of me wants to yell at her, see her grab her top all flustered and run. But do I? Oh, no. I'm working my fat-ass cock. Up and down the shaft. I'm cupping my balls. I want my mouth on this animal's tits. I want to bite them. I want it to hurt her a bit, but in a way that she likes, in a way that makes her little clit jump. Yeah, now I'm all big, you can bet, and that little lady is down there sticking her toe in the pool like she's clay that will run. She's been doing yard work all day. She's hot; dank with sweat; muscular. And she's posing like Aphrodite in gossamer veils. Please. She gets to the side of the pool; she turns a little away from me; she bends over to touch the water with her thin brown fingers. She stands. My hand is moving urgently up and down my shaft now. The beating at the base of my cock is starting to make demands. Turn around, I'm thinking, show me those titties, beauty. Let me come off to those titties, I'm so fucking hot my squirt might just reach you, splotch those baby boobs with jiz. Yeah, I'm talking dirty to her, guttery, under my breath, show me those hot little bitch-titties, I'm coaxing. When she goes me one better. She takes and un zips the fly of her shorts, runs her fingers into her pants. Oh, yeah, baby, I'm saying, my hand jerking now like the crudest of porn theater desperados getting it off in the dark. Yeah, honey, let's see your tight little pussy. Open up for daddy, I growl.