Monday, June 24, 2013

Shards To A Whole: Chapter 130

McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

Chapter 130: Saturday Afternoon

Occasionally, Tim does believe in God, and when he does he often finds himself thinking that He’s got a pretty perverse sense of humor.

The reason he’s thinking this is Abby’s breasts.

Tim really approved of this translucent
outfit. It wasn't until she saw the photo
and how see-through the dress was
that Abby understood why.
He’s always appreciated them. Okay, that’s an understatement. He loves them. Loves the way they look, feel, smell, respond when he touches them. Everything there is to love about a pair of breasts, he loves about hers.

And right now, Pregnant Abby breasts are even better than Regular Abby breasts. They’re so soft and round and big and sensitive and he would very happily spend hours playing with them.

Which is where God’s perverse sense of humor comes in. Nine weeks pregnant Abby is, without a doubt, the most beautiful, sexy, hits all of his buttons so hard he’d be walking around with an erection all the time if he was still sixteen, (And honestly, at less than a week past thirty-seven, he’s adjusting himself a lot more than he used to, and appreciating the fact that his jeans just don’t allow enough movement for him to really embarrass himself when, say, Abby’s at work in a short skirt and one of his button downs, gaping just a bit, and she sort of bends a little.) incarnation of Abby he’s ever seen. So, of course, nine-weeks pregnant Abby also sleeps eighteen hours a day.

So, in addition to having to live with, sleep next to, and work with the hottest woman in creation, the amount of sex in his life has dropped significantly.

It’s Saturday afternoon, and they’re on the sofa, watching Supernatural. (How they didn’t run into it sooner, he has no idea, but on the upside they’ve still got five seasons to go through before they catch up.) And while he’s happily watching Sam and Dean snark their way through middle America killing demons right and left, her head lands on his lap and ten seconds later she’s asleep.

The episode was over, and now there’s this soft, pleasant weight in his lap, and for a moment he was just gently petting her hair, (Which is also fabulous these days. She had the extensions taken out a few weeks ago, but it’s still longer, fuller, glossier, wavier, and softer than ever before.) looking at her, thinking about how beautiful she is, mostly in an innocent, look-how-pretty sort of way, when he notices that the t-shirt she’s wearing (one of the new ones) is cut kind of low, so he can see the tops of her breasts, and it’s pretty tight, and kind of thin, so he can see her nipples through the fabric, too.

Soft, round, full breasts, pressed up gently against each other, and big enough that he could rub between them, which is something they can’t really do normally, and the idea of what all that beautiful soft skin wrapped around him would look like, let alone feel like, settles in his dick, making it harden.

But she’s asleep. Warm breath easing in and out against his thigh. He pets her hair again, watches his left hand ease down her throat, and he diverts it and makes it rest on her shoulder. He’s not sixteen, and no matter how horny he is, and how much he wants to suck each nipple, see if he can get her off by doing it, (she’s more sensitive now than she was on their honeymoon) and then lube himself up, straddle her, and rub off between her breasts, he’s not the guy who molests his pregnant wife while she’s sleeping. He’s especially not the guy who does it after being flat out told not to wake her up.

He hits the play button, tearing his eyes away from her breasts, and of course, there’s like one sex scene per season on Supernatural, so somehow he ends up watching the two episodes with back to back sex scenes. And Sam and Dean each get a girl (okay, technically one of them is a demon) and the girl with the red hair and the white bra sliding all over Dean in the Impala is not helping at all with the whole so-horny-I-want-to-explode issue.

And Abby just sighs a little and snuggles into his lap closer, rubbing her head gently against his erection, killing him slowly, and settles deeper into sleep.

He’s wishing he was wearing the kilt, because if he was, he could just scoot like an inch to the right, jerk off, and take care of the issue without waking her up. And yeah, it’d have to be pretty slow, because her head is on his left leg, and he’d have to do it with his right hand, and, well, okay, they don’t have any tissues nearby, but he’s got socks on so that could take care of the mess, but it doesn’t matter because he’s in pajama pants and the way she’s laying on them is keeping them pretty tight, and it just isn’t going to work.

She rolls over, facing him and not the TV, somehow finding a position where her breasts are pushed together even more firmly, and she’s twisted so the flannel pajama pants she has on are pulled tight over her ass, dipping low so he can see the small of her back, and she’s got it stuck out just a little, and, like her breasts it’s so soft and full and curvy and warm and somehow her head’s turned and he can feel her breathing on his dick through the soft cotton of his jammie pants, and he is biting his lip, cursing that the single hottest woman in the history of womanhood is on his lap, exhaling moist, hot air against his very hard, very sensitive dick and sound asleep.

He’s clutching the remote like he’s about to beat it to death for mortally offending each and every single member of his entire family, staring at the TV with grim resolve that he will not reach down, slip his hand under her shirt, and begin to stroke her nipples. He’s thirty-seven, he can control himself. And she needs her sleep. She’s made it very clear that unless the world is about to end, she does not want to be woken up.

So he’s not going to do it.

He’s going to sit there and be the most sexually frustrated pillow ever.

She shifts a little more, and now her mouth is pressed against his dick.

He closed his eyes, refusing to look, because if he looks, he’s going to touch, and if he touches he’s going to wake her up.

“God, Tim, what am I going to have to do to get you to touch me? Pull it out and suck it?”

“You’re awake?”

“Ish.” Her eyes haven’t opened, but she’s definitely lipping his dick through his pants.

It takes about thirty seconds, but he’s out of his pants and lying on the sofa spooned up behind her, nuzzling her neck and cupping her breast in his hand. “All you have to do is let me know you aren’t sleeping.”

“I’m not sleeping.”

“Thank God!”

“You don’t believe in God.”

“Then thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Help me get out of these pants.”


About another thirty seconds later she’s kicking them off as his hand snakes under her shirt to stroke her breasts.

“Been staring at them for hours,” he says, whole hand lightly circling over her breast. “Been thinking about licking them, sucking on them, just grazing my teeth over them.”


“Yeah, you’ve been snuggled up in my lap for three Supernatural episodes, and I don’t know what this shirt’s made out of, but it just clings to you,” he’s tugging on it, trying to pull it up, but the fact that she’s laying down makes that a little less effective than he’d like. If he had a knife anywhere nearby he’d be really tempted to cut if off of her, one of her few decent fitting t-shirts or not.

But he didn’t. She rolls him onto his back, then sits up, straddling his hips, and pulls it over her head.

“God, you’re so beautiful.” His hands land on her hips and he holds her in place while he sits up, twists around, and gets them sitting with his back against the sofa. “Perfect.” Like this her breasts are right at mouth level on him, and she can ride him at whatever pace and depth she likes.

As they found out last week, at an especially inopportune moment, these days too deep really hurts. Which means these days he’s pretty nervous about any position where he controls the depth.

She slips down onto him, and he hisses at how good it feels. Tight, wet, hot, and wrapped around him, so so good.

She’s moving slowly, not much up and down, mostly just rolling her hips, but with every roll her breasts jiggle a little, and he’s watching them, mesmerized, fingers very gently feathering over her nipples, tracing the newly visible veins along her chest.

He takes her nipple into his mouth, alternating soft, light sucks with pulling gently with his teeth. Her hands clench in his hair as she throws her head back and moans, so he figures she likes that.


“God, Tim, don’t stop!”

He rolls his tongue over her nipple as he lightly strokes down both sides of her breast with his fingers. “How about this?”

A long, deep moan is his answer.

He uses his fingernails to scrape, lightly, on one nipple while he went back to the soft, wet sucks on the other. He’s settling into what he considered a nice, steady rhythm, alternating soft and sharp sensations when Abby suddenly tightens on him, holding his head against her chest, high-pitched moans coming faster and breathier, and then she sort of lightly twitched all over, her pussy softly rippling against him.

She relaxes against him, catching her breath, and he kisses her shoulder.

“Ummm… was that?” Not that he’s unfamiliar with what Abby getting off looks, feels, tastes, sounds, and smells like, but that was a whole lot faster and gentler than normal.

She gives him a sort of sleepy, satisfied smile. “Oh yeah.”

“Wow.” Sure, they’ve done quickies before, but that was like, three minutes, and he wasn’t touching her clit.

“Increased blood flow to the pelvis is pretty nice.”

“So it seems.”

“Everything is a whole lot more sensitive.”

He nods. “So, sensitive like, stop touching me, or sensitive like, two or three more rounds seems like a really good idea?”

Her smile widens. “At least one more round.” She squeezes against him. “Can’t be done yet, you haven’t gotten off.”

“There is that.” He grinds against her, and she sighs, pleased. “So, would you like it if I got down on the floor, spread your legs wide, and saw how fast I could get you off by licking your clit?”

She kissed the tip of his nose, looking very pleased. “I could go for that.”

He pulls her face down, and kisses her long and slow, his tongue making explicit promises of what’s to come, then breaks away to say, “What if I wanted to see how long I could lick it before I got you off?”

That got a hot look and a long, hard tongue-trusting kiss from her. “That doesn’t sound bad, either.”

“And after that, I want to go back to your breasts. I want to straddle you and slide between them.”

“That sounds good.” She slips off of him, and scoots down so her hips are even with the edge of the sofa.

Their sofa probably wasn’t designed with sex in mind. Probably. Who knows? But it’s sturdy, offers good back support, (the reason they kept her sofa and not his. His sofa might have been okay for napping, but wasn’t nearly firm enough for anything friskier than spooning.) and is the exact right height for Abby to sit on it while Tim knelt in front of her and slipped in, or stood and she blew him.

What it isn’t great for is oral where he’s on the giving side of the equation. It’s about two inches too low for that. (Well, the seat’s two inches too low. The arm’s about three inches too high, and doesn’t offer good leg support for her. And the back… well… yeah… let’s just say that while this sofa is sturdy, it wasn’t designed to handle a large load on the back vigorously bouncing around, and that if you do something like that it tips over, and well, that just wasn’t much fun, at all.)

But, well, the occasional sore neck is a minor price to pay for the sublime joy of Abby coming on his tongue. And after all, if you aren’t willing to sacrifice for your art, what kind of man are you? (Writing? Writing is his hobby; it’s a craft. He bangs out solid, satisfactory mysteries with an occasional really great line or scene. But fucking Abby, that’s his art. The feeling that gives him, the passion going into doing it, that’s the reason art exists. If he were a painter, her body would be his favorite canvas. If he was a musician, she’d be his favorite instrument. And as a poet, her moans and cries are his favorite verse.)

And even with the idea of slow, she’s on enough of a hair trigger right now that he was only able to spin her out for ten minutes.

Ten very good minutes. Ten minutes of light, slow, gentle licks, just bare hints of the tip of his tongue ghosting over her, while she squirmed and moaned and cursed, pulling on his hair, begging him for harder or faster.

He didn’t go faster, Abby gently slipping into a slow climax is amazing, and he loves watching it. He did go harder, rolling his tongue over her in focused, firm circles, increasing his pressure as she arched her hips against his mouth.

This time he’s expecting it. He felt her body tighten, heard her moans go higher pitched, felt her clench and twitch, body shaking against him.

He rests his face against her thigh, letting her come down, enjoying hearing her post-orgasmic purring, as she lightly petted his hair.

After a few minutes she says, “So what’s this about my breasts?”

He looks up at her. “I was thinking that if you were to sort of kneel.” She starts to shift, but he keeps her still, his hand on her hips. “Not yet. We’ll need lube for this, and I don’t feel like getting up and going to the bedroom for it, especially not when,” he kisses her pussy, wet and soft lips and tongue slipping along her, “you’re right here and very wet and slippery. Anyway, if you were to sort of kneel, sit with your feet under you, and lean back against the sofa, and if I were to straddle your legs and kneel, I’d be at just the right height to rub off between your breasts.”

“And you want to do that?” He’s never mentioned being interested in that before, so she’s a little surprised at it.

“Been dreaming about it for hours now. You were lying on your side, and they were pressed up against each other, and all I could think about was what it would feel like to slip between them.”

She grins, and then presses her breasts together and up. “Sounds good.”

He leans forward to kiss each one. “So beautiful.” Then he shifts from sitting to kneeling, and thrust into her, reveling in the feel of her body on his, watching himself fuck her. “This is awfully nice, too.”

She sits up and kisses him. “Don’t get distracted.” Then pulls off of him, settles her feet under her, and uses one hand to hold her breasts together.

He takes in the full image of her, kneeling on the sofa, breasts together, waiting for him. “Oh… That looks so good.”

“Bet it feels better.”

He hops onto the sofa, her legs between his, and scoots a little closer, slipping his dick between her breasts. “Oh, FUCK!” And yeah, it looks exactly as good as he thought it would and feels about a thousand times better. “I really hope you like being pregnant because I’m keeping you this way as long as I possibly can.”

She giggles at that, dips her head, and licks the tip of him as he thrust up.

“Oh…” His teeth clench as he watches her do it. “That’s even better.”

He set a fairly quick pace, grabbing the back of the sofa for balance, not wanting to stretch this out any further. A few strokes in she says, “Bet I can make this better.”

He feels her hand on his balls, rolling them, tugging gently, and yeah, that is better, that is so better, that is all sorts of better, and he actually growls at her when she takes that hand away.

“Hush.” She grazes her teeth over the head of his dick. “You’ll like this.”

He can’t see what she’s doing with that hand, but he has a general idea of where it has to be, between her legs, and he isn’t sure if she’s rubbing herself off or not, because the only thing he’s looking at is his dick slipping between her breasts, plump white flesh wrapped around him, and her tongue lapping at the tip as it pokes out from between them.

But he certainly feels it when a slick finger slips behind his balls and starts to ease its way inside of him. And fuck that was… just… She twists it, finds what she’s looking for, and presses forward.

“Oh, God, shit! Abby!” Fuck, that feels good, and he’s so close that the only thing keeping him from cumming all over her is the fact that she doesn’t like it, and it occurs to him he didn’t think this part through very well, and “Fuck!” she twitches her finger just a little more, rubbing his prostate, and, “Oh God!” she bends her head, takes the tip of him into her mouth, sucks hard, and he’s just gone, riding the pleasure coursing through his body.

When he’s paying attention again, he notices her gently nuzzling his belly. This is also when it occurs to him that he got her naked, but he’s still in his t-shirt and socks.

“You liked that?” she asks.

“Oh yeah!” He sits back on the sofa, next to her and looks at the back of it. “Left grip marks on the sofa.”

It’s made of that microfiber suede-style stuff that shows where and how you touch it. It feels really nice, but if you ever touch it, it leaves marks.

She giggled at that, and got up to wash off. A minute later she was back with a warm, wet washcloth and he took care of himself.

She’s up, doing something, and he’s just sort of laying around, dozing on the sofa.



“C’mere.” He holds out his hand to her, and she takes it. He tugs her back onto the sofa and spoons up behind her.

“I’m going to fall asleep if I lay down again.”

“So? I’m going to fall asleep, too.”

“Be nice to get something done besides sleeping today.”

“We got groceries and had sex. Eventually we’ll make dinner, maybe have more sex. That’s a full day.”

She laughs at that.

“I’ll get cold.”

He reaches behind himself, grabs the blanket from the back of the sofa, and tosses it over them. “I’ll keep you warm. Get a nap with me. Then we can stay up late tonight.”



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