Part 6 already, and you’re still here with me. Or maybe you’re finding yourself with me here for the first time. At any rate, it’s nice to be here, with you.
The back issues of my tale can be found in a pinned post in my profile, if you’re interested or like my writing. If this is your first time ’round here, this is a journal series of all the landmark experiences that went into driving me towards the man that I think of myself as being today, and the women who taught me to find a confidence in the bedroom that I could turn into a more resolute and tangible drive to succeed at anything else I’d try my hand at.
We’re hopping in, once again, with M and I. I hope you enjoy.
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That summer wound down swiftly, though there wasn’t much left to savor between the termination of my work study term and the beginning of a new semester. Late August burned on stubbornly nonetheless, and I found myself infuriatingly plagued by a rare summer cold. It might have been a flu. I don’t know, in truth; I was 20 at the time, and the natural invincibility that comes with that meant I was entirely unwilling to go to the doctor. Instead, I lay in bed at M’s place, surrounded by a growing pile of used tissues and generic antihistamine packaging. I was entirely consumed by rage at not being able to spend those last summer weeks outside in parks and on patios, but my body was letting me know in the strictest sense that I needed the rest, and I would simply run fevers and hack up a lung until it was satisfied I’d gotten it.
I’d largely moved in with M by then. My apartment, visible from the window of her own attic tenement down the street, sat as a bit of a time capsule for the lonely, unkept workaholic I had been three and a half months previous. No longer though! I had just the most amazing woman to keep company with, a reason to shave regularly, and was genuinely unable to get any work done due to the cold that had sidelined me.
She was a delightful caretaker, though her own work demands kept her out of the house most of that week and I wasn’t much company when she did get home regardless. Still, her affectionate sympathy, little pats on my head, and constant unnecessary readjustment of my pillows and blankets was incredibly heartwarming. In truth, I was far from gravely ill, but it felt nice to be cared for all the same. She even had a go at chicken soup, despite not being much of a cook. That’s not criticism either; we ate fast and cheap more often than not, and never really had much occasion to do more than warm something quick and easy up. It was the worst soup I’ve ever tasted, and I ate every bite gladly. I think she loved me.
I’m actually sure that she loved me, but not in the carnal way that we’d grown used to in the preceding months. Not that week, anyway. She had a lot on her plate, so she spent most of her time out in the living room, curled up on the daybed that I had first watched her fuck herself on, which served as her couch. I stayed in the room, not wanting to pass my plague on to her. Days passed like this, and I grew listless. I wanted her, badly. She had become an obsession, and every minute spent in isolation was the purest agony, especially given that she was quite literally just around the corner from me. I told her as much, often, to which she would feign a pouty expression to tell me that she missed me too, and that I’d be fit for fucking again in no time, but that I’d have to content myself with Netflix and a good book in bed until then.
I don’t mind repeating myself when I tell you that she was simply stunning. Broad, strong shoulders and thick, firm thighs with ample tits that hung heavily and slightly to each side of her chest. Freckles, long mousy hair, a broad and generous smile and a low laugh that I delighted in hearing at every chance. Her tummy was soft in a way that made her an excellent pillow for my head, and the bands of stretch marks across her hips and little love handles were prime kissing targets. I adored that body, and that such an openly caring and confident woman came with it.
It was Friday night of that week. I awoke with a startle at hearing the door close behind her; I’d fallen asleep with the TV on. I must have been mouth breathing – my tongue felt cottony, and my nose was raw from blowing. Watery eyes were no less delighted to see her as I did from the doorless bedroom though, and I perked up as she came in.
She grinned at the sight of my pathetic ass laying there like I had any real reason to be feeling so sorry for myself, and asked how I felt. I had turned a corner I thought, the worst was surely behind me now. She laughed. I looked like a warm bowl of Death’s leftovers. I asked if she wanted a bite. She told me I was stupid. I wheezed a sad little laugh, telling her how right she was. She messed up my hair and dropped her bag on the floor, expressing her need for a shower, and I reminded her of our promise to never lock the door on the other, as we were frequent enjoyers of the timeless shower quickie. She told me to keep my contagious ass out of there, at least for a few more days. I couldn’t argue. I was still a little gross.
She peeled out of her tee and wiggled her way out of her jeans in the corner of the room, saying that the least she could do was remind me of what I was missing. I told her she was mean, to which she came over in her underwear to kiss my clammy forehead. She knew it. She hoped I’d forgive her. She turned and presented her delightfully fat ass and invited me to have a squeeze to make up for it, so I smacked her hard and took a hearty handful. I loved the way she rippled, and her shocked little yelp made me giggle. I was a bad man, according to her. She grabbed a towel and flashed a smile over her shoulder as she padded off to the shower. I was suffering from a severe case of hating to see her go but loving to watch her leave. The slight dimply cellulite of her ass was just so gorgeous.
I heard the shower turn on, and the rasping slide of the curtain being drawn. I was so tempted to join, but knew I shouldn’t. Still, the thought of her in there, soapy and soft and wet, was all the reminder that I didn’t need of just what I was missing. We seldom went more than a whole day without having each other. 6 days now was beginning to feel rather taxing. I could practically feel her body in my hands, and her lips on my neck. It was all a little too much; I started to feel a rush of excitement stirring me beneath the sheets. Surely, I could stroke one out before she finished up. I reached down and began to rub myself; given that it had been several days since I’d enjoyed any relief, I was shockingly hard, and a fat bead of precum dribbled from my head, only to be worked over and down my shaft in a slick, wet coating. It felt incredible. I closed my eyes and let myself drift into pleasant memory.
I thought of the nights we’d spent furiously entangled until we fell back, breathless and giddy into each others’ arms.
I recalled waking on a Saturday morning weeks before with a hand tugging firmly and insistently on my morning wood while hazel eyes watched me rouse sleepily from the next pillow. I thought fondly of a time where I’d been resolutely commanded to drop to my knees and kiss her furry mound while she sipped her morning coffee, bare ass rested against the counter and a hand in my hair. I thought of all the times I’d come home to find her repeating our first encounter, unashamedly spread open on her couch with a rubbery shaft plunging in and out of herself, or fingers deeply crooking themselves in a pussy so wet I could hear it squelching from the door. She seriously masturbated far more than any woman I’d ever known to admit to. She liked what she liked, and I had no choice but to admit that no one would ever know a body as well as they knew their own. It was a wonder she didn’t walk around with pruney looking fingers every day, for all the time they spent inside her. I did enjoy when she’d force feed them to me while we rubbed away together.
The shower curtain tore open from the other room, and I was ripped away from my reverie. I hastily tried to hide the tent I made of the covers, hoping she’d not notice. I don’t know why I bothered – it’s not like she hadn’t seen me do it a hundred times before. I was sure I’d gotten away with it as she came to hang her towel on the hook in the room. The water had felt great, she said. I admitted that she looked much refreshed. Yes, she said, she’d needed that. I spied that she had shaved herself, leaving a neat triangle of close-cropped pubic hair, and shifted to better hide my twitching cock beneath the covers. I missed licking her. In hindsight, I should have noticed that the wry grin meant I’d given myself away. In the moment though, I didn’t. She was going to go relax for a bit, then order something to eat. I told her that sounded great. I watched my favorite ass jiggle back out of the room again as she pulled a loose housecoat around her shoulders.
Dejectedly, I forgot all about my boner. I understood the need to keep her from getting ill, but I missed her so badly. I missed her body, but just being near her was something I badly craved again. I scanned through Netflix idly and moped. Nothing to watch. I put something on just for the sound while I scrolled through my phone. A text from her popped up.
Hey.
I replied, hearing hers ding in the other room. I’d asked how she was.
Miss you.
I missed her back. Her phone’s ding was followed by some shuffling. A picture came back, taken from somewhere under her chest, a shot of her body from the navel down, covered mostly by her housecoat, legs smoothly shaved and crossed at the ankles. She wished I was there.
I wished, in earnest, that I was too.
Oh yeah?
I reconfirmed. I really hated being stuck in here. Another picture came back. One leg was bent upward, the robe parted all the way up that thigh, a hand covering what I coveted most. She wished I was there. My cock reanimated itself with temerity.
I worked my angles and sent a picture of my hard on as my only reply. I knew she’d like that. I was right. I heard the notification sound, and she laughed just loud enough for me to hear. More shuffling. A drawer opened – I knew which one. A buzz filled the air. My phone rang with a facetime call.
She was biting her lip, her brow was furrowed. She said Hi while minute muscle contractions tugged at her facial features and lips. She was breathy. I asked if she was enjoying herself. She wasn’t doing anything at all, she protested. I called bullshit. I heard a click over the call and the buzzing grew louder in the other room as she exhaled sharply through her nose. I gave her my most unimpressed look and she gave a cartoonishly playful laugh. I was commanded to show her. Being in no position and having none of the willpower to resist her, I shed the covers and flipped my call to the rearward camera to let her watch me stroke myself. She cursed and told me how good I looked before returning the favor. Her robe was spread wide open with the tie laid across her tummy, her pale body gloriously on display, a purple wand pressed between her lips humming wildly.
I pulled my cock back so the camera faced my head full on, which she obviously enjoyed to some degree as she pushed her toy harder against herself before changing the angle to slip it inside. She pumped it back and forth a dozen times, slowly, before withdrawing it entirely and powering it down. It was so wet, so shiny. Frustrated, I turned my camera back around as she did the same. I was going to protest but she gave it’s tip a juicy kiss and I fully moaned aloud. It was so hot, and my whimper prompted her to take the entire shaft into her mouth. She told me she tasted so good, and I agreed wholeheartedly, telling her that I missed making her cum on my tongue. She told me to go on while she continued to rub her proxy cock on her lips. I told her that I’d been thinking of the time I ate her for breakfast a few weeks before, and that I hated that she’d made me stop to go to work. She asked if that’s why I’d been so obviously hard when she got out of the shower. I was busted, and I so didn’t care.
I was still recovering from a phlemy laugh when I heard something hit the ground; the call dropped. She practically stomped into the room and ripped the covers off me, throwing them to the floor entirely. I told her that I thought I was too sick. I was commanded to shut the fuck up as she climbed up onto the bed, swinging her right leg over me and gripping my cock firmly. She licked her other hand swiftly and sloppily, rubbing it briefly between her legs before lowering herself onto my cock and settling, faced away from me, on both knees. I adored how wet she got, and relished the feeling of coming home at long last, warm and wetly snuggled into my favorite place in the world. She put her hands on my thighs in front of her, ass squished down on me in the most delicious way, and began to rock back and forth. Friends complained that they didn’t care for it when their girlfriends did “that grinding thing”, but I thought they must just be bad at it, because I loved it. It might not be as good as a full on, up and down bouncy squatting fuck, but the knowledge that this was far more likely to make her cum hard on me more than made up for it. I was, as I’ve previously alluded to, addicted to my role in making her cum.
She ground on, back and forth, side to side, and around in circles, chastising me all the while for making her wait entirely too long to give her what was hers. Her ownership of me was the hottest thing in at least the known universe. She called me every name under the sun, and insisted that my huge cock was filling her up so very well, and that she was simply never going to get off. She adored my cock, and needed it so badly. Handfuls of her ass and the grip she maintained on me were driving me wild. She couldn’t stand how long it had been since I stretched her out, and she’d grown to hate the feel of her vibrator and dildos. She loved it. She loved my cock. She loved when I was inside her, she loved when I came inside her and filled her up and leaked out of her, and she loved when I fingered her while she was full of me. She loved fucking me and she loved…
Me.
She had never said it. 14 weeks together, every waking moment spent together and 5 days of pseudo separation, and she finally told me she loved me while furiously abusing herself on my aching cock. She flipped her hair over her should to look at me and said it again, all three words, while looking right at me, holding the look while she began to rock back and forth in a rhythmic riding motion, up and down. I was stunned, and words escaped me, but she held the stare and told it to me again, this time with my name at the end. It was too much; she knew I was trying to spit it back out at her, but was also intimately familiar with just what her body did to me – she was obviously aware of what she was doing.
She turned back away, hunkered down with her chest flat against the bed and put herself on full display while she rode me; my cock was absolutely glistening and I loved watching her greedily embrace the entire slick length of it three, four, five times. The motion of her ass, her hole stretching around my head as she expertly rode me right to the tip, the wet squish of her pussy swallowing me whole; it was all such a sensory assault.
She demanded, entirely confident she’d get my answer as soon as sense returned to me, to know what the matter was. Did I love her? Did I? She emphatically settled herself down hard each time she asked just to accentuate the torture. Tell me, she demanded. It was all too close now. Tell me. I was so close.
Tell me, motherfucker.
I grabbed her hips and pulled her down so hard I thought something insider her must have broken to accommodate me and began to unload a rushing torrent of cum while she cheered me on with Yeses and Babys and Fill Me Ups. I did, too. I seriously filled her up. I held her down and thrust my hips up and felt myself contracting and spurting over and over. I still don’t know, truthfully, if women can actually feel the cum spurting up into them or whether it’s the pulses of the shaft itself, but she laughed riotously as my orgasm refused to end. I felt lightheaded as it finally quaked its last few eruptions, and breathlessly slapped her ass. She slumped forward, rolling onto her back, and propped herself up on her elbows to look at me.
Well, do you?
I did. I really did.
She knew it already. I was also a bit of a snotty mess though, so she told me she needed to grab her man another box of tissue. She left the room to grab another box and, as the cum ran down her leg in a sticky trail, I reflected on my impossible luck at being her man.
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I don’t know if that one was really as long as it felt, but it was a blast to write and to remember. If you made it to the end, and enjoyed what you read here, consider dropping a line to say hi. For those of you who have done so, and continue to do so in comments, PMs, and chats, THANK YOU so much. You’re great fun to chat with and I hope you, of all people, enjoyed this.
See you next week.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/yigeqx/the_fucks_that_made_me_part_6_fm