Free The Christmas Exhibition by V T Vaughn Page A

thoughts of her adultery. And determined by emotions which were distorted between intrigue, distress and excitement.
                  My hand mauled my muscle with reckless abandon, throwing my closed eyes into conjured images of Jill's dress barely covering her backside, roaming against the erections of the men she had danced with. The labourers she described as real men . The watchful stares of the others, waiting their turn. And Sean. Sean, waiting, watching and wanting. His frustration turning to anger. The descriptive word in his head billowing and bellowing inside.
                  “Slut.”
                  Jill's refusal to revoke any attempt he made upon her.
                  Her desire for him to touch her.
                  Her want for him to touch her.
                  Her need for him to touch her.
                  His cum.
                  His...
                  I came violently into my palm, streaming spunk between my fingers and over my thumb, dropping more onto the wooden floor below.
                  I leaned back for a few moments of respite. I would find the tissues soon enough. I would clean up. I would hide the evidence. Jill would never know the true arousal I found in her slutty behaviour.
     
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    “ You filthy fucker!” she shouted.
                  I heard her somewhere on the peripheral edges of a dream I was having about scoring a goal against Spain in the World Cup.
                  Jill picked the nearest newspaper from under the coffee table and smacked it against my naked knees.
                  I jolted upright, realising my boxers were still around my ankles and my spent cock shrivelled between my thighs. “Shit.” I looked to the mantelpiece. It was almost 10am.
                  “Who's a right little wanker?” she teased, showing no signs of the hangover I had anticipated. “Wanking over me, I hope.”
                  My mind was dreary, drained from the roots of reality by the remnants of a dream still failing to relinquish control to the waking world. “Yeah,” I muttered, then leaned forward and reached down to my ankles for my underwear.
                  “No, no, no.” Jill walked quickly forward, and placed the heel of her foot on my boxers. “You don't get out of it that easily, mister.”
                  I looked up to her, in awe of her beauty and drinking in the delightful display her morning wear provided. Jill's figure was tightly wrapped in a pink satin nightdress, hid over the shoulders by the wool of my unfastened dressing gown. Her acquisition of my clothing only serving to increase my awareness of the cold.
                  “What did you masturbate to?” she demanded.
                  My face scorched with further embarrassment, stealing the toil of the temperature away from my senses.
                  “It was me.” Her heel hit the floor, trapping my boxer shorts in between. “Wasn't it?”
                  “Yes, of course.” My chest heaved beneath a deep sigh. “It's always you, Jill.”
                  She laughed. “Tell me more.”
                  “That's what happens when a guy goes out with the most stunning girl in the world. He fantasises about her even when he's not with her.”
                  Jill smiled. “You're sweet, Matt, but that's not what I meant.” She reached down to her leg, scratched her knee and peeled back the bottom of her nightdress as her hand retreated. “I want to know what you were fantasising about me doing as you wanked yourself off in the middle of the night.”
                  I stared at her beautiful thighs, until she dropped the satin and robbed me of my glimpse.
                  She raised her foot from my