A Day’s End — as told from Her Point of View

An erotic story where a woman comes home where playful teasing turns into after work intimacy. It builds into a passionate encounter with them wanting more.

Gosh, what a day.

I‘m tired. Work sucks. I let the door slam behind me and lean against it, eyes shut. I open them after a few seconds and look around to see him smiling at me over a book from my favorite chair – large, sturdy enough to plop on and comfy enough to make plopping worth it. Honestly, the audacity.

He smiles at me like he owns both my chair and book. “You okay?”

“Ugh. Tired.” Can’t frown at him. I smile. “I’m glad you’re here. How are things with you?”

“Hmmm…” Now I’m grinning. He always does that! Like it requires thought doing a quick checksum of the day before replying. “All right.”

“Good”.

I drop my purse with less grace than intended, shrug off my coat, and kick off my heels one at a time, balancing like a mildly annoyed flamingo.

“Careful,” he says. “I’d hate to lose you to footwear related injuries.”

“Tragic headline,” I mutter. “Local woman defeated by her own fashion choices.”

Nice. I’m back on solid ground. They’re nice shoes, though, so I set them carefully on the floor before stretching. They’ve earned respect unlike my job. The tension’s slowly leaving, taking some of the tiredness with it.

I wander across the room to him and lean over, bracing myself on the arms of the chair looking directly in his eyes. Don’t want to throw my back out.

He looks up from his book again. “Yes?”

“I miss you when I’m gone.” I’m sure my eyes have a noticeable gleam. Subtle? No. Effective? Also no. But honest.

His smile softens, deepens.

He sets the book aside like it suddenly lost all meaning.

“I miss you too.” He leans forward and gives me a quick kiss. “I made spaghetti sauce. Want some now? I just need to cook up some noodles.”

I start kissing him on the temples, by his eyes, on his cheek. “Nah.”

“Mmm,” he replies, like he already knew that answer.

My back won’t go out in one second. I let go of the chair and pull up the sides of my skirt enough that I can kneel on top of him, my legs on either side.

“Yes?” he asks playfully, a bemused smile on his face.

“Do you mind?”

His smile is wide now. His hand moves to cup my cheek for a moment. “No.”

“Okay”. I kiss him, quickly, then pull back and giggle. He’s giggling too. Worth it. Completely worth it. I lean forward again and we begin kissing.

No rush. How many different ways could we enjoy a kiss?

The world can wait; it’s clearly not going anywhere. Kissing turns into kissing, the kind where you forget what you were doing five minutes ago and don’t particularly care.

Our hands start exploring, lightly, then hugging tight. His hands on my back slip under my sweater, then around to the front, feeling my breasts through my bra.

At some point his shirt becomes less buttoned than it used to be, which seems like a reasonable life choice. My hands play with his chest, and his hands move to my rear, then down my legs. His “mmmm” sounds good as his arms move to hold me tight. I feel him kissing my hair and then my neck as I move my hands to his buttocks.

“Hey”, he says, “my turn”.

“Bold of you to assume it wasn’t already,” I murmur, but I let him take the lead anyway.

He lifts up my sweater, I take it off. He kisses my breasts above my bra, through the lace. I stroke his back and kiss him on the mouth.

His hand reaches the bottom of my skirt, slips under, then moves up the side. I feel it stop at the stocking top. A finger slips under the stocking, and pauses suddenly, like he’s discovered something unexpected.

“Garter belt?” He’s surprised. Gotcha! I’m smiling innocently, which fools absolutely no one. “Mmm-hmm”.

“Planning this all day?”

“Maybe.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Only if you had other plans.”

“I did,” he says. “Spaghetti.”

“And yet here we are.”

“Life is full of difficult choices.”

His hands move up, exploring my legs as if he’s never felt a pair before.

His mouth is on my breasts. I’m too busy feeling to do much, but I won’t let go of him either, my hands stroking his back and shoulders.

His hands move higher. He’s still. I can feel his hands on my bare vulva. I open my eyes, looking at him.

His voice drops a little. “No underwear?”

It isn’t really a question.

I smile. I begin kissing him lightly. “You mind?” My devilish grin flashes a message of its own. He seems taken back and at a loss for words. “Umm…” Then, “No. I don’t mind.” Was there any doubt about the answer I would get? “Good.”

We kiss again. Longer this time like we’ve silently agreed that we’re done pretending this is casual.

He moves his hips forward, his hands on my buttocks pulling me down against him. “Here?” he asks after a moment, like he’s offering me an exit he knows I won’t take.

I don’t answer with words. I reach down, my fingers trembling slightly as I pull the hem of my skirt out of the way. The fabric bunches at my hips, exposing the damp lace of my panties to the cool air. I rock my hips, rubbing myself against the hard ridge of his erection trapped beneath his jeans. The denim is rough, abrasive against my inner thighs, a stark contrast to the wet heat building between my legs.

“Mm-hmm”, I hum, the sound catching in my throat as I grind down harder, seeking that perfect angle of friction.

“Oh”, he answers. He tries to sound surprised, but the corner of his mouth twitches. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows I’m soaking his jeans right now.

We both know he had no intentions of moving either.

He pulls me in for a kiss, his lips claiming mine with a hunger that belies his calm exterior. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting me, dominating the rhythm. I melt against him, my hands tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. We continue to hold each other, kissing and hugging, moving in a slow, torturous rhythm. His jeans feel rough on my legs, every shift of fabric a reminder of the barrier between us.

I need it gone.

I break the kiss, panting for air, and reach for the button of his fly. My fingers fumble for a second before the metal button pops free. The sound of the zipper lowering seems deafening in the quiet room, a harsh tear that signals the point of no return. He lifts his hips, helping me, and he pulls his jeans and shorts down just enough to free himself.

His cock springs up, thick and hard, slapping against his stomach. The sight of him makes my mouth water. He’s thicker than he normally is, veins mapping a roadmap of desire along the shaft. The head is dark and swollen, already glistening with precum.

I don’t wait. I rise up on my knees, positioning myself over him. I pull my back, sliding the crotch of my panties to the side. I’m aching, empty, desperate to be filled. I sink down slowly, letting the head of his dick stretch me open, inch by inch.

The sheer girth of him is forcing my walls to accommodate his size. It’s a tight fit, a burning stretch that borders on pain but melts instantly into pleasure. He’s inside me, continuing the rhythm we had begun earlier, feeling it build. I gasp, my head falling back, my hair cascading down his shoulders.

“God…” he groans, his hands tightening on my ass, guiding me down until I’ve taken all of him. He fills me completely, pressing against spots I didn’t know I had.

I hear his breath in my ear, feel him moving under me. “Ohh…” I groan.

I push myself further down, wanting more of him, wanting to erase every inch of space between our bodies. He arches back, his head pressing into the chair, pushing further into me until I can’t breathe. I start clenching and unclenching him with my pussy, gripping him tighter, then relaxing, milking his cock with my internal muscles.

He thrusts deeper, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, guiding our rhythm as I clench and release, our breaths syncing with each movement. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, wet and obscene. I tilt my pelvis, meeting his thrusts, the friction building an unstoppable heat that coils low in my belly.

I force my eyes open, locking gazes with him. The intensity in his eyes undoes me. He’s watching me fall apart on his lap, watching me ride his cock with abandon, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever felt.

His moans grow ragged, his control slipping as I tighten around him, squeezing his dick rhythmically. I can feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic, less calculated. I’m riding the edge too, the pressure building to a breaking point.

I arch my back, my muscles tensing as the wave crests. I grind down hard, taking him as deep as possible. He buries himself fully, his hips jerking uncontrollably.

“Orgasm” is such a pale word for what we experience.

There’s something about after work intimacy with him that resets everything.

I feel the hot pulse of his cum coating my insides, triggering my own release. My vision whites out, my body convulsing as the orgasm tears through me. I cry out, clamping down on him, milking every last drop from his throbbing cock. We collapse together, trembling, our hearts pounding a frantic duet, the air thick with the scent of sex and sandalwood and the aftermath of our shared climax.

At some point, we end up side by side in the chair that was definitely not designed for this.

I don’t want to move.

I don’t want him to move.

Unless, of course, it’s to start over…

If you enjoyed this story, I invite you to read it from HIS point of view and/or read my other erotic tales.