I sobbed as he bore down on me, fast and deep. My chest was icy hot and my face was burning like fire. I wept and wept and looked into his light blue eyes; one half of his face in deep shadow, the other flickered with candlelight.
Our groins locked in a heated embrace, slick and viscous. He continued to pound into me, then let up and took a leisurely pace, which only caused more racking sobs and laughter from me. My arm or hand intermittently thrown over my mouth and face to keep my cries from awakening my slumbering child in the room across the hall.
“God, I love fucking you, Hy,” he says.
He kept at me. In good ol’ fashioned missionary. He asked me to talk, so I pulled from my writings. I said my cunt was weeping for him; that I could feel him in my goddamned throat. And then I couldn’t talk anymore and he laughed and said he had only wanted to see me try to speak. I told him he’d fucked the English right out of me. And it’s true. He did. He fucked the English right out of me.
We’d played Scrabble earlier tonight and again he’d slaughtered me (I’ve yet to win one game out of a dozen). He’d bashfully told me he’d fucked his ex last night and then I remembered his text). He admitted he’d felt weird about it and apologized. I told him that he never had to worry about me being jealous; he just had to be kind.
My kid was in the room when we were talking about it, so we spoke in code. I said, “Look. The only reason I’d ever not like it was if my ‘dog’ talked about how awesome his new ‘bone’ was and how much he loved his new ‘bones.'” He assured me that his “dog” would never do that. Troy always used to talk about how awesome his other women were and it was more than I could handle. I am a supporter of non-monogamous loving and sex, but not of having it compared to me and what I can do for my lover.
Which is why I loved to hear that he loves fucking me after a night of sex with another woman. I mean, no higher compliment could have been paid. It meant so much.
I love fucking this man, too, and I told him so. Again and again, crying out as quietly as possible.
And when he was buried deep inside of me, his face nestled in my wet neck, his lips nibbling my skin, I slipped up and said, “See… this is why I think of you when I’m fucking other men,” and he answered back with deeper, harder thrusts and a deep throated moan.
When it was all over, when we were both spent, I was embarrassed at my admissions. He eased my discomfort by kindly lying and saying he hadn’t understood half of what I’d said.
I told him I hoped we could hang out again tomorrow night. He said he hoped so, too. And then he threw me a lopsided grin and told me that there was nothing hotter than seeing me lose control.
When he’d first curled his fingers into me, I was perched on the edge of my bed. I fought the spray that I felt building, but to no avail. His mouth was locked on my pert nipple and I filled his cupped palm with my sex despite my best efforts. I simply couldn’t help it. He said later he could feel me fight it and lose the battle; that nothing was hotter.
He wailed on my buttocks with a heavy hand, his eyes fixed on mine and this time I’d met his gaze. I told him he was wicked. He only smirked and fucked me inside out. Reveling in my compulsive reactions to him.
Sex with this kid is warping me, my world. No one sets me soaring like he does. He wondered aloud as he was dressing if it was simply because of the convenience of him. I assured him that any man could be convenient, but it was his combination of boldness, sexiness, and kind spirit that aroused me so. He thanked me. I hope he believes me.
I wrapped myself in a robe and walked him to the door. “Now I take the long walk home,” he teased. He kissed me deeply and I smacked his rear loudly. “And your cat is judging us.”
“No, just you,” I answered with a smile as I looked over at my decrepit cat sitting in the scrabble box lid watching the entryway.
And he left and walked the three feet next door.