I haven’t see you since I was married-we both got divorced at about the same time, effectively killing much of our mutual attraction. The fact is, you’re not a very nice person, and neither am I.
But.
Still.
0400.
I still often wake up and imagine I hear you letting yourself in through the garage door, always minutes after my husband had left…I imagine I hear your stealthy approach, your weight on the bed, lifting the covers, and rolling me unceremoniously onto my tummy. The cold metallic snick of the cuffs on my wrists, then you wrenching my panties down midway.
Two pumps: squirt, squeak, of the lotion dispenser, smearing some on me, some on you, making me able to receive…never really ready to receive, but at least I stopped shrieking when your bulbous, angry head, pressed too hard, then parted my sphincter…
You were always hard though. Always ready, always wanting more.
I remember when this particular ritual, this game, started.
We were drunk and I told you I fantasized about being taken in my home by a stranger. About my long standing love of restraints, and force, and how I could make myself cum just from remembering how my neighbor would tie me and take me. Then we you added anal. Because your wife wouldn’t let you. But I would: I was easy.
So that became our kink, you indulging me, and I you.