Talking and Fucking
This restless hunger. I’ve been masturbating three times a day, locking myself in the bathroom, in the darkness, imagining him. Fucking me up and down the room, knocking-over-furniture-type fucking.
Talking and fucking.
Somehow that’s really done it to me. This voice of his I first noticed on the phone: Deep, sexy, hypnotic. I immediately felt myself open a bit, my breath catch. I’ve come to the sound of his voice, without him even touching me. His voice and his words have become additional instruments of pleasure in our repertoire that keep me on edge. They are relentless and penetrating, like his cock, like his hands. I have the sense of being fucked on so many different levels: verbally, physically.
“I like to talk,” he says, the first time we’re together.
“Okay…” I say.
“Do you like my body?” He has a beautiful body.
“I love it. You’re so toned and sculpted. You must work out a lot,” I say, sliding my hands down the ripples in his back.
Inside, I’m shaking and my body is glistening with nervous sweat. He touches my back, it’s wet and he looks at me, he knows. Knows I’m affected. Afflicted. My thighs are slick from the moment he walks in the door. I feel so naked.
“Do you like my cock?” I look at him. He’s very hard. Solid. Quivering.
“I love your cock.” I grab him firmly in my hand. “I want to taste you…” I fall to my knees.
His voice has unlocked me, taken me to this involuntary place of surrender. It seeps in and fills me.
“You are sooo wet.”
“Yes. I am. I am going to turn around and I want you to slam your cock into me. Hard. I love the sound of your balls slapping against my ass.”
The words orchestrate.
The sum total is that I can’t get enough of him. I want him coming on my ass, my mouth, my face, my chest. The effect of some people lasts an hour. He lasts for days. Weeks even. Echoing, reverberating inside me. And I’m still weak in the knees every time I hear his voice.