My lover gave me quite the fucking last night. He had my legs up under his arms, spreading me wide as he pounded that glorious big-head cock into me. It's a vulnerable position. I'm pushed down and open. It's also a very arousing one. It's cool and the window is cracked open but sweat sheens on his face as he fucks me to a more frantic pace. His eyes are closed. At first I was running my hands across his chest, holding his arms, but as things step up I grab his ass and feel it slamming in and out of me. I reach up and scratch his back, which makes him even more powerful in his strokes.
I know he's thinking about fucking Heather again, or maybe fucking me and Heather together. He says he's never done anything like that before. And he's keeping his own counsel about my advice to him the other night. But the intensity of the sex is clearly higher.
I am thinking about him fucking Heather, too. It's bringing me close to orgasm, thinking about the way he pinned her legs back and rammed in and out -- does she moan or scream? Was she inventive and edgy? I want to know but he won't say much yet. I assume the worst: she's a hot little harlot with all the right moves.
It's a curious feeling, a pit of the stomach insecurity, a pit of the pussy voyeurism, an all-over flush of primal territorial madness. This my man...I have to take back my man... Oh, she's a little babe. She has the kind of straight perfect yellow-blond hair that always made me feel plain. It moves as a sleek unit against the nape of her neck as she turns her head. And she's ten years younger -- hard to compete against that. I'm also attracted to her. And if he wants he, well let's me honest...it might let me off the hook.
Don't think I'm a heartless bitch. I want to believe in love. But I need sex more and I cherish my freedom of action. Mixing love and pleasure can be dangerous. How will he choose? Will I choose for him? Stay tuned, dear readers.