After Midnight Read Online Free PDF

against, and I don’t want to pull out the dildo. Before I start the vacuum cleaner, I stop at the sex-toy box. I pull out an egg-shaped vibrator and slip it into my panties. The remote control goes into my pocket. I don’t turn it on. Not yet.
    Ah, vacuuming, a one-handed job. My free hand strays into my pocket and flicks on the switch, just for a few seconds. I like the buzz, so I give myself another hit. Halfway through the living room, I decide to leave the vibrator on at low buzz. By the time I get to the bedroom, it’s on high and every step I take pushes me closer to the brink. Just the study to go.
    I don’t want to turn the vibrator down, so while I thrust the vacuum under the desk, I think of cold showers and ice, like some kind of football jock who can’t keep his little man down. That does it. I drop the vacuum and straddle my girlfriend’s office chair. I imagine I’m a golden boy-hunk of muscle, giving it to her, fucking her deep with my great big dick. I arch my back and come hard and long. The blood rushes to my head, and I see black spots in front of my eyes. They clear up, but the rushing in my ears won’t go away. Then I realize it’s the vacuum I’ve left running.
    I peel myself off the chair and pick up the vacuum. I spot a dust bunny in the corner and aim for it. But the fantasy isn’t letting go. In my fantasy, my girlfriend, who I’ve just nailed, pulls me from behind. I drop the vacuum and let her push me to the floor. “Where do you think you’re going, big boy?” she says, lifting her little cheerleader skirt. She straddles me and grinds her wetness on my belly, then leans down and whispers in my ear. “We’re not done yet,” she says. “ ’Cause now it’s my turn.”

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    Twana Goodman
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    D igging through the stack of magazines by my girlfriend Larissa’s bed (mostly Ebony and Sports Illustrated , with some Vanity Fair s and a few motorcycle magazines thrown in for good measure), I find a copy of Hustler . It’s two years old and the cover’s a little creased, but the women look the same as if their photos were printed today. Their bodies are glistening with oil, or maybe sweat. Their breasts jut straight out, varnished and hard. Their tiny tufts of pubic hair point the way to carnation-pink insides, tinted in Photoshop by an art assistant who probably pinkens hundreds of pussies a month.
    There’d be no reason for Larissa to hide the magazine from me. She knows I love porn, the skankier the better. I’m sure it was just absentmindedly shoved toward the bottom of the pile. Still, I’ve never seen a magazine like this one in her house. As far as I know, she never buys the stuff, not even Playboy . In fact, she claims to hate straight porn. Can’t stomach all that cock, or the long-nailed skinny white girls. When I talk about images
that get me hot—women tied up, submissive, debased, begging for it—she reminds me that she has feminist sensibilities, and the look she gives me embarrasses both me and my libido.
    I wonder if Larissa jerks off while looking at these pictures. Suddenly I realize that in the year we’ve been together, I’ve never once seen her masturbate. I’ve prodded myself with every toy she owns, as well as a few juicy-looking kitchen implements. Pranced around her house naked, save for a butt plug in my ass and clamps on my nipples. All for her enjoyment. Her titillation. But she has never once reciprocated. “I’m a voyeur,” she tells me.
    How does Larissa do it? Does she use a vibrator? Does she even take off her pants? I imagine her thick fingers parting her bush, finding her hard clit. The fingers at the end of her wellmuscled, cocoa-brown arms. The same fingers that feel so good burrowing deep down in my cunt. The fingers she uses to tease my pussy open before her fist—jammed against my