I had a brutal day today with my ex. We are on the fringes; all my hard work for us not to end up like our parents nearly destroyed.
But that wasn’t the point tonight. Tonight it was about how amazing and supportive a man could be to a woman dealing with another man, an important issue that had nothing to do with him personally.
The Neighbor listened and gave interesting, intelligent feedback. He impressed me. And when I said, “We’re fucking tonight,” he said ok, but I’d have to warm him up due to him being striken with seasonal allergies.
Ok, buddy. Challenge accepted.
I tucked him in and wrapped him up, then peeled him like my own private Idaho candy bar.
At first, he nipped and suckled my breasts through vintage cotton and I moaned and rode a rigid hardness burgeoning beneath the down comforter separating us.
Then I pulled back the covers revealing his raw, pale, nakedness.
“Ow, your stubble hurts,” he complained as I lowered my dry pussy lips to his shaft, thighs quivering.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” I said and lifted my hips. “How’s this?” I redirected the head to my dry-ish, happy hole. “I can actually feel you!” I exclaimed.
He grimaced for a split second then flipped me over and started the slow, exquisite process of entering my wanton body.
He punched and pounded my insides.
Clutched and kissed, gripped and grabbed. I held on for dear life and fucked back as hard a I could. The footboard lent purchase to my thrusts and I rammed back into him and his grunts.
I felt a pressure surge through me, electric. Time and time again. I bore down around his shaft as it struck my g-spot and I squirted like a motherfucker.
I began to sob as he split my legs and threw his head back and railed into me.
He didn’t cum; I came for both of us a thousand million times; wet and loose and weeping, was I.
He kissed me and held me and called me back to his nook.
I flopped there like a wet Sunday newspaper, heavy and unresponsive. “You ok?” He asked, stroking my arm.
I said yes, but I wanted another orgasm. He insisted I try and I obliged.
It wasn’t until he took his thick hand to his meat that I spilled over and tumbled through myself.
Something about the blurry arch of his speedy hand and the sound of fap fap fap fap fap fap that does it for me, I guess.
And then: he’s there. For real. Fuck my ex and my grief and my past. My future is my now. He loves me, I love him. He’s great with Peyton, my friends and family. He’s a crazy genius. He’s here.
And I’m happy despite the stress of an old life shackled to me forever. It just is. Just like we are.
He helped me redress in the candlelight, my shirt on inside-out, a new composition, kissed me deeply and slipped away into the shadows.
I love him.