We fit together. I’m the teaspoon and he’s the tablespoon. He tells me a deep, dark secret and I press myself into him. He cups my left breast with his left hand, I cover his hand with mine, and he holds me tight and holds me tighter.
He woke me up at 6:30 with a raging hard-on, whispering in my ear, “I saw you lying there, and you looked so beautiful, and I had to have you again.” We’d just gone to bed five hours before after fucking for hours. I was sore, but I ached to have him inside of me again. To feel his cock filling me up, twitching against my g-spot, making me gasp. Making me cry out to gods I don’t believe in. At one point he says to me, “Your hair smells nice… but your pussy feels better.” Best thing I’ve heard in a long time. We laugh. We speed up, then slow down. We soak my sheets in our sweat, and it’s not even hot outside. We come together, him pressed into my back, my top leg carelessly thrown over his legs, his arm around me, fingers touching my nipples, my hand on the back of his head, my own head thrown back.
Sometimes he tells me what to do, and it’s always exactly what I want to do. He’s scared to hurt me, but I’m encouraging him little by little, and he’s game to learn. He touches me softly at the right times and in all the places I want to be touched.
He sends me text messages telling me that he can’t wait to see me, to touch me, to be near me. We get each other so riled up with tales of what we’re going to do to each other the next time we meet that I have to stop whatever I’m doing and touch myself.
He kisses me in public and calls me darling.
He’s so strong and so vulnerable all at once, and beautiful when he’s sex-flushed. He wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, but he is exactly what I need.