On being a marathon sex woman

Can I do this or not?

My photo of the favorite coffee cup

“i hope you got home safe.”

I stare bleary eyed at a glowing screen. Sleep crusts over the corners of my eyes and a singular eyebrow raises. It’s an hour before my work shift. A silk pink and white Victoria Secret robe adorns my arms and curves. I sink into the cloth upholstery of the recliner.

Every time this man texts me it’s a sort of booty call. The funny thing is I’m more than happy to answer this call in kind.

Just not in the morning before coffee. Or, even more so with an hour plus commute I gotta deal with. A long, drawn out yawn releases from my still waking up body.

My fingers tap out a message and I know it’ll be a texting volley.

“Thanks! I did, just waking up now.”

“Want to come over quick?”

My sexual side considers where we’ll fuck and whether I could do this thing called a ‘quickie.’ A friend of mine kids around I’m a marathon sex woman. Which, is absolutely true, I like to tease men for hours before delivering them the satisfaction of finishing.

This man is my neighbor. It’s a physical closeness that I’ve never had. We’ve taken full advantage of this especially when we started. We’d go at it one day, not have sex another, then do it again, three times in one week at first.

He picks me up and bends my body. I am twisted in positions I didn’t know were possible. The last time my legs were put over my head, sideways, as he fucked me so hard my tits bounced.

My breath came out in rapid gasps. He watched me as he drove deeper inside. I always catch him watching me if I dare to open my eyes. He prefers to see how my lips part, my moans, how I react. While I shut my eyes and focus on the sensations building within me.

The pressure of my core clenching around his huge, substantial girth. The force of his hips thrusting faster, deeper, with wild abandon into me. When he slows occasionally I’m left to merely gasp, awaiting him to thrust into me with the quickness he does.

I want him to push all the way inside. I desire for him to own me, bend me and push me past my limits. He’s the first and only to carry me wherever he so chooses to fuck me.

He needs to dominate me in ways I’ll never allow anyone else to. I follow his commands to get in positions I’ve never been in before. Occasionally I rear up, trying to see what he’d do if I took back the control.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he growls out.

His fingers entwine within my hair. I pull against his hold, testing it, testing him. I’m the playful kind of lover that will laugh and moan at the same time.

He fucks me in ways I want to scream out. A pleasure induced scream in the best way possible. As I give into this ecstasy and his all consuming thrusts inside me.

I can taste the smoke on his skin if I dare to lick the surface. We keep from kissing the other’s skin just in case we desire more than what we already crave. He’s never kissed me, it’s a danger we avoid. Because we both admit that in this moment in our lives we can’t give to another more than what we are.

I am broken, a woman that never trusts. Yet, here I find myself with him time and time again. As he peels layers of clothes off. My eyes take in his lanky, never ending legs, back, arms and body. While my substantial thighs, hips, hourglass curves are the mirror image opposite.

My lips embrace my favorite coffee cup. The warmth heats the insides of my palms. The delicious bitterness mixed with a slight sweetness hits my tongue. I bite into a chocolate piece and let it melt in my mouth. A sigh releases as I consider the logistics and realize being late for work isn’t worth the risk.

“Gotta get going soon for work. So, gonna take a shower and head out so not now.”

I text him back. I already see the three iPhone dots signaling that he has a rebuttal.

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