Come.
Just the word is enough to make my body jerk, seize...want. I want to come. And it's been too long since I've felt like this. Too long since coming has been anything more than just a release in tension. Something I only do to allow my body to relax enough to find sleep.
"So long," I whisper. "Too long."
"Fuck," he groans. "Your voice."
I moan and I can't even care that it's loud and embarrassing. I moan like I've forgotten that someone else can hear me.
"I'll bet you're hot," he whispers, all hushed and rough and quiet. "But no one knows that, do they? No one knows that you're like this, that you want something like this. Maybe even you."
His last words push through the clouded space of my mind. And I realize that on some level, they're true. I'm not supposed to want this. I'm not supposed to have these secret desires that no one ever speaks about. Which is why I buy dirty books in secret and read them alone in the privacy of my own house.
"Tell me you want this," he continues. And I'm grateful because I don't know if I can speak. I don't know if I'm capable of anything other than just simply being in this moment listening to him speak, amazed that he's opening hidden doors with keys that have been forgotten and put away for so long. "Tell me you want me to make you come with my words. That you want to put your fingers in your pussy and pretend they're mine while I tell you how to touch yourself...how to get you there."
Five deep breaths as my knees bend.
And my eyes are closed tight and my toes curl one, two, three times.
"Say it," he says. "Tell me."
"I do," I breathe, and it's like a release. "I want this. I want...that. Everything you just said."
And I feel like a weight is lifted. I feel like I'm lighter, open...so much more open than I was before.
I can't keep myself from thinking that men like him really do exist. They're out there somewhere. Not just in books and in the imaginations of women like me.
"Say it again."
I blink, I answer.
"I want this."
"Tell me you want me."
There's no thought, no pause.
Just the truth.
"I want you."
He groans, he shifts. I hear it as he moves. And I wonder if he's touching himself. I wonder if my voice is doing the same thing to him that his voice is doing to me. And I'm jealous for a moment at the thought that he would be touching himself. That he would be finding release without me when he told me that I couldn't yet.
Seconds pass, time stands still, and I realize that he hasn't spoken.
I breathe, I whimper...and then I hear him groan.
"How long has it been since another man was inside you?" he asks low and rough. "How long has it been since someone...fucked you? The way that I want to fuck you?"
His words are dirty, filthy, perfect.
So without thinking, I answer, "No one has ever fucked me like that. Ever."
It's the truth.
It's the absolute truth.
But before I can think about the fact that I'm thirty years old and have never - not once - been fucked the way he's describing, before I can allow myself to think about how sad and pathetic that is, before I have time to wonder what he's thinking...he responds.
"I would," he breathes. "If you let me, I would fuck you like that. I would make you feel good. I would make you come with my fingers and my mouth and my cock."
.
.
.
A/N
Reviews are love.
Please leave me some.
See you all shortly!
