The clock read 10:14. I looked over at her lying next to me, a smile implanted on her lovely face, a secret behind her eyes. She liked to be pounded. She didnt need to tell you this for it to be known; her agressive behavior in the bedroom spoke volumes. But she knew I could not give her the pounding she desired. No. That was not something my libido had granted me. And yet, for some unspoken reason, she kept coming back. Like Oliver Twist standing at the server’s mercy for another meal, she opened her legs once again and allowed my erect penis inside of her vaginal cavity, completely at my command.
With my penis wrapped in lubracated rubber, I slid inside of her. She gripped the sheets around her thighs as she bit her lower lip. A moan escaped the tendrils of her quivering throat as I slid in deeper, making my strokes long and as deep as my average cock would allow. I was balls deep, as the colorful expression goes, when she arched her back and called my name in a mix of pleasured anguish and unbridaled desperation.
Her pussy was heavenly moist; there was no pentrational effort needed, but I took my time as if her walls were a tightened door involved in an accident and my cock were the jaws of life. One, two, three long strokes. Then just to mix it up because women dont like monotonal sex, I hit her with three quick bursts as if my penis was a gun that had been clicked from manual to automatic. Sudden yelps of surprise were heard, and a smile spread across her rosy lips.
Long and deep, short bursts. Short bursts strung together followed by a steady dose of deep strides.
Just before I felt my load about to shoot I took her legs and held them above my head. My penis then became a sub-machine gun, firing three-round bursts until the genital clip released its last bullet.
Her thighs began to convulse as she arched her back again while moving upward on my cock, taking in every micro-inch she may have missed. The clock now read 10:27. My longest sex session.
I stared down at her. A hand washed through her sweat matted hair, her tongue lashed at her lips, satifactory moans were sung. I am an average man, an average lover; she looked more than content with my performance.
At the risk of ruining the moment I had to ask the one question that’s been plauging my brain since our first genital gymnastics tournament on this same bed several months ago took place: “why do you keep coming back knowing I cant fuck you the way you want?” I am a confident man but women befuddle my intelligence. Once you think you’ve got them figured out they surprise you once again.
She looked up at me, staring not just at my face but at ME. I felt a bit…exposed. I didnt dare look away. With a sly smile she said, “you got that voodoo dick.” I tried to hide my laughter but there was no use.
She grabbed my shoulders and pulled me closer. We rolled around in joined laughter until she was back under me, a look of seriousness on her face. “You may not fuck me like I ask but you’re a good fuck. Any woman would be stupid to not come back for seconds.” “Or tenths, in your case.” She looked away as her face reddened with embarrassment but she laughed whole-heartedly.
“I dont only come back for the sex, you know.” “No, I dont know.” I pulled her face close to me. “Elaborate.” “You make me feel, I dont know. You let me feel like…a woman, when I’m around you. Does that make any sense?” None whatsoever, I thought. Then it hit me: “What you’re saying is, I treat you like more than a sexual plaything. Correct?” She shook her head. “We’ve been friends a while now and, I dont know, you make me feel…special.” Her voice lingered around the word special as she slid closer to my body, wrapping her hands around my averagely musculed biceps. I was more fat than muscule. I mean its not out of control- I do work out occassionally. But I enjoy eating and dont combat the cravings with more exersice. She looks the type to want someone in shape. Yet here I am in her bed talking about how special I make her feel. Women befuddle my intelligence.
I ran a hand through her hair. The pleading look in her eyes gave me the impression she wanted this to be more. Its what I’ve wanted for so long. Not just to be her bedmate, but a fixture in her life as well. I was extremely proud of who she was as a person. Her intelligence matched my wit, complimenting the expression “mutual understanding.” She never judged my mistakes but rather played morality cheerleader and more often then not, her encouragement is what pulled me from multiple mind wreckages. In essence, I might be a lost cause without her.
But it has not been a one-sided journey in this friendship. She has leaned on my laid-back personality when there were bouts of depression. From the breakup of her long-term boyfriend last year to her mother’s death, whom she was exceptionally close to, over the summer. There were days when she wanted no contact with the outside world and the idea of concealing herself in the fetal position under her blanket seemed like a great plan. But upon answering my phone calls, opening the front door to her apartment, responding to text messages, I managed to “brighten her day.” To sum it up- we needed each other more than we would ever let on.
I rested my head on a pillow and pulled her close. She placed her head on my chest. After moments of silence passed she said “your heart is beating so fast.” Your touch does that to me, I wanted to say. Instead I pushed aside her hair, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. The clock read 10:44. I am an average man, an average lover. But she makes me feel like a king.