Romeo
“Seriously?” Terry’s husband asked, brushing a stray hair out of her face. “His name is Romeo?”
“It’s not like you can talk, Pick,” Terry responded playfully, and Pick was forced to smile.
“Fair call.”
“Truth be told, I’m just glad that Hal is making friends.”
“Hey, you were the one who called him Hal.”
Terry affectionately pushed her husband away, and he drew her close, covering her mouth with his. With that, the topic was dropped, not to be picked up again until almost an hour later, as the couple lay on top of each other.
“So what’s this Romeo like? Is he an Adonis among men?”
Terry sucked her teeth as she thought; an awful habit that she’d been meaning to get rid of for many years now.
“I’m not quite sure what to make of him,” she eventually concluded. “Like I said, I’m just glad…—“
“—…our son is making friends, yes. I got that.”
The move had been hard on the whole family, but it had been an offer that Pick couldn’t afford to pass up, and so—against Hal’s strenuous objections—the three of them had picked up and moved to Illsley Heights, home of fuck-all.
Moving was always hard, but moving halfway through their son’s senior year of high-school had been particularly stressful, and Terry sometimes wondered if he’d ever forgive them.
Moving to a town where their arrival was the most exciting thing to have happened in the past four years was even worse, and the insular nature of the community had meant that they’d all struggled to fit in.
Pick at least had his work; Terry had found herself considering alcoholism, just in the hope that she’d meet someone at the AA meetings. But the brunt of it had fallen on Hal, who was hardly outgoing at the best of times.
And so, in a desperate effort to be supportive, Terry had decided not to judge young Romeo by his cover.
A good thing, too, else she would have quickly reached some fairly damning conclusions: that he’d made friends with her son because he was an anti-social little creep.
She’d been in Romeo’s presence for less than five minutes, but it had felt like an hour. He’d unabashedly leered at her—her clothes were conservative (although perhaps not as conservative as the inhabitants of Illsley Heights were accustomed to) but he’d still attempted to stare down her top, up her dress, and generally tried to undress her with his eyes.
But that was fairly typical of teenage boys—no, what had really disturbed her was the stare.
He’d hit her with it as soon as they’d met. She’d smiled, excited to meet her son’s new (and only) friend, and in response, Romeo had just…
It was like he’d fucked her with his eyes.
Terry had physically recoiled; she’d taken a step back, almost tripping over her own feet. The force of it had temporarily stunned her—she’d stammered a greeting, and spent the next few minutes acutely aware of Romeo’s roaming eyes as he blatantly looked at her tits.
As soon as she had the mental acumen, she’d made an excuse to leave the room, and that was when he’d done it again.
Bam.
Terry knew she was being silly. He was a kid, looking at an older—and extremely attractive (even if she said so herself)—woman. Of course there was going to be a bit of oomph to his gaze.
But there was something more to it; something vaguely sinister.
She didn’t like it. She especially didn’t like how much it intrigued her.
It was a good thing she wasn’t judging him based on first impressions, else she’d certainly have told Hal that Romeo couldn’t come around again.
“What do you mean he looks at you?” Pick asked, his hand lazily resting on his wife’s generous bosom. “I look at you.”
“Ha ha ha,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s different. I like it when you look at me.”
I like it when Romeo looks at me as well, she silently admitted. That’s the problem.
He’d come over again that afternoon, and to her shock, a thrill had run through her body at his gaze.
Again, she recoiled from the force of it. It took her several minutes to catch her breath, and by the time she did, Romeo and her son had left the room.
What the hell is happening to me?
As soon as she’d recovered, she went upstairs and sat on her bed.
It wasn’t just the attention, she assured herself. She had been getting attention from men—even younger men—for years now, and it had never affected her like that. No, there was something about Romeo’s stare that was…different.
Disturbing.
Entrancing.
“I mean, I guess we could tell Hal not to bring him around any more,” her husband responded, his mouth twisted with thought.
“No no no,” Terry responded immediately. “That’s not fair to him. This is my fault…”
“Your fault?” Pick replied, one eyebrow raised. “How is it your fault?”
Terry didn’t have an answer to that, and so she pressed on, undeterred.
“You know we can’t do that to Hal,” she said earnestly, and her husband nodded in agreement. “It’s taken him so long to find a friend, we can’t kick him out just because…”
“…he appreciates a pretty woman?” Pick said playfully, and tightened his grip on her breast. Terry was forced to grin.
“You flatterer,” she joked, and didn’t object as his hand slowly began moving south, tracing a line down her dress.
Soon, she was gasping in orgasm, writhing at her husband’s touch…desperately wishing she could get Romeo’s face out of her mind as she did.
“Romeo!” Terry panted as she bucked against her own hand.
It had become an addiction.
Ever since she’d cum around her husband’s fingers earlier in the week, she’d been unable to orgasm without thinking about the teenage boy. At first, it had been a challenge—she’d desperately tried to get off while thinking about anyone else; anything else.
No matter how many attempts she’d made (and living alone in a small town, she had ample time to pleasure herself) she hadn’t been able to visualize anything but his face as she climaxed.
It was impossible, but she knew that he’d done something to her. She had resolved to stop until she could work out exactly what he’d done to her—and how she could stop it.
But to her dismay, that had proven easier said than done. She couldn’t stop—if she didn’t get herself off at least three or four times throughout the day, she couldn’t function. She was completely unable to concentrate on anything through the haze of lust; the mother of one was even having trouble breathing.
And so she gave into her new, constant need to cum.
Eight times in a single day was her new record. Eight times, desperately clenching around her fingers, urgently moaning the teenage boy’s name.
“Romeo…”
After she came, she generally had a about half an hour of clarity. Half an hour in which she could do housework, prepare herself a meal, sometimes even catch up on the news and current events.
Half an hour before desire descended again, taking over her mind, leaving her helpless to her lust…
“Oh god, Romeo…”
She’d taken to rubbing herself while naked and on all fours. She had no idea what would happen if her husband came home early and found herself like that—her nipples brushing against the floor, her brown eye winking at anyone standing behind her.
After orgasm, she’d sometimes find herself with her face pressed against the floor.
Worst of all, as soon as her husband returned home, her desire completely disappeared. For the first few days, she’d forced herself to make love to him anyway—she needed to feel normal, to feel wanted by the love of her life.
Her feigned enthusiasm had fooled Pick, but it had exhausted her, and by the third night, she was feigning a headache, aware of the hurt in his eyes as she rejected him.
As soon as he left in the morning, her hand was between her legs, frantically stroking her wetness, crying out Romeo’s name again and again as she climaxed.
By the end of the week, she knew that she was at risk of permanent damage unless she slowed down. And so, against every instinct coursing through her body, Terry made a decision.
She told Hal that his friend was no longer welcome in the house.
“Oh god, yes. Please. Please, Romeo…”
It was no good.
Terry through the vibrator across the room in frustration. It had been almost a month since she’d last seen the boy. It had been three weeks since she’d last made love to her husband, and a full eleven days since she’d last managed to climax.
No matter what she did, she couldn’t bring herself to orgasm. The fog of lust which had been alleviated by cumming was now a permanent fixture in her life; the only time it disappeared was when her husband made a move on her, something that was becoming less and less frequent.
When her husband tried to casually flirt, Terry was hit by a wave of disgust. She’d tried to mask it, but her husband had seen how she’d reacted to his advances, and the look of sorrow and rage on his face was something she would never forget.
As soon as he left, she was unable to think about anything but getting off. And she was equally unable to achieve orgasm.
She’d tried everything—watching porn, reading porn. Different positions, toys, instructional guides from the internet. It was as if someone had built a wall between her clit and her mind, and no matter what she did, it was impossible to breach.
Her orgasm was closest when she was thinking about Romeo: calling his name, begging him to take her, to use her. Visualizing him naked, between her legs, pistoning in and out, using her as a hole to cum in.
But no matter what she did, she couldn’t cum.
“Please, Romeo…” she whimpered to no one in particular. “I need it…”
“I need you. Please, Romeo. Please…”