After Midnight Read Online Free PDF Page A

I’m a procrastinator. My motto is, “Why do something today when you can put it off and end up not doing it at all?” So after she leaves, I stay on the couch like I’m glued to it, one eye on the clock,
knowing I should start. But come on, cleaning sucks, right? I keep telling myself, Five more minutes.
    Then those five minutes are up and I think, Okay, just five more minutes.
    This could end badly.
    Then bingo! I get an idea. I remember the time we read Betty Dodson’s Sex for One out loud to each other. We alternated chapters, of course, to keep it even. I remember a story about a woman, this housewife, who would clean for an hour then lie down for five minutes to tease herself with her vibrator, then get up for another hour with five minutes of fun waiting at the end.
    I think, I’m there!
    I’m up and running, my mind racing. We don’t have a big apartment to clean, so I perform some quick modifications on the concept. I know it’ll work. I’m a genius!
    Here are my rules:
    1. I have to keep upright, no lying down.
    2. I have to keep cleaning without stopping for any significant amount of time.
    3. But while I’m cleaning, I can get off any way I want.
    And then I throw in a curve ball:
    4. The blinds have to stay open.
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    I start with the dishes. There are a lot of them. I’m gonna be here for a while, standing in front of the sink. Pulling out a greasy pan, I start with a dirty fantasy: I picture that woman in Dodson’s book putting in a load of laundry then kneeling over her Hitachi Magic Wand, teasing her cunt a little, then pulling back, then teasing again. It’s getting me going.
    Reaching to the windowsill for the steel wool, I feel my hip brush against something hard. It’s the handle on the fake drawer that fronts the sink. I scrub and scrub and oh-so-casually wiggle
down to see if I can get the little gold knob into a position I can use. Oh, yes. If I stand in close, it pushes neatly against my clit. God bless our landlord for the thoughtful renovation he did on our kitchen. The next fifteen minutes of dishes fly by. I quickly wipe down the counters and turn to the stove. Lots of baked-on crud there. I scrub and scrub and check out the action on the knobs on the stove: right height but a bit pointy. And I’m also afraid I’ll make a wrong move and accidentally set myself on fire. Not a pretty picture. I move on.
    The living room is full of possibilities. I have little moments as I lean up against the table edge while I polish it, or straddle the arm of the sofa while I plump up the cushions. But if I really have to keep cleaning without stopping, I can’t linger in these delights. I miss my friend, the gold knob in the kitchen. We got so much work done together.
    There has to be a way. Then, holding the can of Pledge between my legs for a moment while I dust, I have an idea. I go to the closet in the bedroom. The one with the sex-toy box. The door opens at an angle that hides what I’m doing. That’s right, nosy lady across the street, I’m just getting some cleaning supplies. I dig around until I come up with the prize: the lavender dildo my girlfriend and I bought last week at Babeland. I slip it into my underwear with the flared base lying against my clit, while the curved head dips into my wetness. And, boy, am I wet.
    On to the bathroom. I squat, I lean, I lunge, I reach. Every turn exerts a new pressure in my pussy, every angle another sweet sensation. Then the bedroom. While I’m squirming across the bed to tuck in the far corner of the sheet, the dildo shifts and slides all the way inside. I moan and rock a little to anchor it inside more firmly. Standing up, I take a few experimental steps to see if it’ll slide out. It stays put, and I hang up the laundry enjoying the satisfying feeling of fullness.

    I’m in the homestretch now. Just the vacuuming to go. But my clit is crying out for something to rub