Amy and I had been together for about three years. Our relationship, as most, started off pretty hot and heavy. We met in a bar and headed out into the alley for some fresh air. She seemed chill to me, but when she hoisted her skirt up, squatted down and pissed on the ground — not even bothering to go behind a Dumpster — I knew she was wild. She held eye contact with me the entire time while she finished her story.
We took an Uber home. She invited me upstairs. It was all a blur, it happened so fast. My cock was in her mouth. She was sitting on my face, grinding back and forth. I ate her asshole from behind. On the sofa. I think? And then I was inside of her. Pumping away as fast and as hard as I could. It either lasted no time at all, or hours and hours. Like I said. It was a blur.
But it didn’t take long for things to sour. We started fighting. She wanted to move in together. I wasn’t ready. Eventually, I did move in. And that caused more problems. I blamed her. She resented me. But everyone said these were just the standard relationship growing pains. They weren’t. There were serious red flags everywhere.