It could be less than a minute from the time I open the front door to when I have a cock stuffed in me.

Jason is on his way over right now.  It happened last time he came over.

We kissed hello awkwardly, he came in, said, “Let me put my glasses down.”  Then, “First order of priority is where are we gonna eat?”  Followed immediately by, “No wait, that’s priority #2,” and he launched himself at me, pushed me down to my knees and pulled out his engorged cock for my watering mouth, then eventually wet pussy.  We never even made it to my bed.

Flushed red and with makeup smeared across my face, he gently brushed the sweat-matted hair from my brow and said, “Aw… you look so fucked right now.  And you looked so pretty when I came in.”  I told him I was going to stop applying eye-makeup before he arrived.

Tonight I have both eye-makeup on and butterflies in my gut.  I never know what’s going to happen with this guy.  His actions while we’re apart scream NOT INTERESTED!  But the second we’re together they yell IM INTO YOU!!   I think mine say IM DOWN AND INDIFFERENT!

I thought I might answer the door in just a robe, but thought, Hmm, maybe he’s on his way over to end our affair, because, you know.  I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS JOKER IS THINKING.  I think about it like a bill I have to pay.  A little crappy, but painless. Still, I don’t want to go to any special efforts if he’s just coming over to end things.

But, on the other hand, he could be coming over to spill his seed into me.  Oh, did I not mention that?  Yeah, well, he and I go bareback.  We got tested, we’re clean, and he gets to cum all over inside of me.  He’s not fucking anyone else and he knows the rules of engagement once he does: absolutely NO genital-to-genital contact sans barrier.  NONE.

The trust aspect of this “relationship” we have going keeps me off balance and on my toes.  I like it, I like the power shift.  I trust him.  He trusts me.  It’s a nice feeling.

Even if he is a weird, 26 year old a-hole when it comes to returning texts.

The text thing is shitty, but the fucking thing far outweighs it.  I’m not hard up, so I’m wiling to be patient with this young man while he fiddles around quietly on the days between our fucking.

Ah, butterflies.  I love them.  My pussy is squeaky clean, I look pretty, there’s a fire in the hearth with my ancient, bony cat singing his whiskers upon it.

I will be either pouring myself a glass of wine alone in 30 minutes or will be whimpering for mercy with his thighs beating into mine, his hands on my hips.

Only the man behind the knock at the door knows how this evening will turn out.  I’m just along for the fucking ride.

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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