Fifteen years and a dozen girlfriends later, Bill still missed Brenda. Missed her warmth and... the joy it brought him just to be near her. Missed her laughter and her squeals of pleasure when she came. Missed her. Ached for her.The statuette ended up on the pillow next to him that night when he drifted off to sleep. Somehow, it felt like it belonged there. And he had such vivid dreams. He was making love to Brenda. She was stretched full length on top of him, and he relished the feel of her 260 pounds enveloping him in her yielding, fleshy warmth, grinding him deeply into the mattress. (Damn, that was a sensation none of his later girlfriends had been able to give him!) He awakened gasping for breath as his body let loose its built-up tensions in a prolonged, throbbing gush. The bedsheet reeked of sex... his sperm and something else. What? It smelled of Brenda. He remembered her particular odor, that body smell that meant she was horny, that she wanted him inside her. The smell hung. The glimmer of a man's eyes outside the glass, a silent audience of one watching her breasts revealed as he scooped her from her top, she leaned back against him, smiling toward the window, toward the person watching. He pulled the bow at the side of her bikini bottom, pulling it loose, then yanked the other, letting the wisp of cloth and ribbon fall to her feet. Above her vagina was a small tattoo of a purple butterfly. Like a stallion in rut, he spun her toward him, his lips heavier now, his kiss more insistent. She sensed his hungering libido. His hands scooped her ass, lifting and carrying her to the bed.Just outside the room, the voyeur touched his own stiff cock, letting his fingers on the tip, feeling the drop of pre-cum, spreading it over his tip. His weakened knees and shortness of breath would have betrayed him to any passerby, but it wasn't the kind of motel where anyone would care. A place for clandestine lovers and fallen angels, the Peterson Inn was mostly empty this.
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