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Four months had passed since he broke up with me, yet our bodies somehow found their way back to each other again.
A few days prior to our sexual marathon we had reconciled our differences. He confronted me about the article I had written about him and I apologized. I confronted him about the reasons I felt the article was justified and he apologized.
Seconds thereafter, he expressed how addictive I was and how he missed my oral prowess. I in turn told him how my body still ached for his. The withdrawal symptoms were so severe, that I’d occasionally find myself being “dickstracted” in the middle of a very important work assignment.
We were obviously suffering, and the only way to alleviate some of the withdrawal symptoms that were tormenting us was to meet for a session of fiery, passionate coitus. I had two simple requests: (1) we would shag on my terms, and (2) neither one of us was allowed to get attached.
It seemed simple enough; we were both consenting adults who were familiar with this sort of agreement. We were both supplying a demand for a product – nothing more, nothing less.
And that’s how I found myself back at his place after four months, only this time; it wasn’t under some guise of wanting to build a future and live happily ever after. We wasted no time. Within seconds I was lying on his bed, legs spread to make way for his toned body to fuse with mine.
We locked lips and I quickly remembered how much I enjoyed the taste of his saliva. He proceeded to head south, I clutched on the sheet with both hands while my back instinctively arched. I bit my lower lip in an attempt to subdue the moaning. I hungered for him, and he indulged me.
The deeper he thrust, the more that hunger became insatiable. Both our bodies were throbbing as we struggled to catch our breath afterwards.
He called me the following morning, "that can’t happen again. I’m scared I might end up wanting more from you." I was flummoxed. This was not part of the agreement. I found myself manipulating him until he succumbed, and within a week, he made me reach status orgasmus yet again.
"We can’t continue with this. I’m already feeling exposed", I murmured. He didn’t give me the greatest sex I ever had, yet for some reason, my body responded to his touch – so much so, that he was the only man to make me squirt, twice.
"I know I was against it before, but I foresee major problems in the future if we continue." He didn’t say a word; he just let out a sigh, almost as a sign of defeat before kissing me once more.
A few days prior to our sexual marathon we had reconciled our differences. He confronted me about the article I had written about him and I apologized. I confronted him about the reasons I felt the article was justified and he apologized.
Seconds thereafter, he expressed how addictive I was and how he missed my oral prowess. I in turn told him how my body still ached for his. The withdrawal symptoms were so severe, that I’d occasionally find myself being “dickstracted” in the middle of a very important work assignment.
We were obviously suffering, and the only way to alleviate some of the withdrawal symptoms that were tormenting us was to meet for a session of fiery, passionate coitus. I had two simple requests: (1) we would shag on my terms, and (2) neither one of us was allowed to get attached.
It seemed simple enough; we were both consenting adults who were familiar with this sort of agreement. We were both supplying a demand for a product – nothing more, nothing less.
And that’s how I found myself back at his place after four months, only this time; it wasn’t under some guise of wanting to build a future and live happily ever after. We wasted no time. Within seconds I was lying on his bed, legs spread to make way for his toned body to fuse with mine.
We locked lips and I quickly remembered how much I enjoyed the taste of his saliva. He proceeded to head south, I clutched on the sheet with both hands while my back instinctively arched. I bit my lower lip in an attempt to subdue the moaning. I hungered for him, and he indulged me.
The deeper he thrust, the more that hunger became insatiable. Both our bodies were throbbing as we struggled to catch our breath afterwards.
He called me the following morning, "that can’t happen again. I’m scared I might end up wanting more from you." I was flummoxed. This was not part of the agreement. I found myself manipulating him until he succumbed, and within a week, he made me reach status orgasmus yet again.
"We can’t continue with this. I’m already feeling exposed", I murmured. He didn’t give me the greatest sex I ever had, yet for some reason, my body responded to his touch – so much so, that he was the only man to make me squirt, twice.
"I know I was against it before, but I foresee major problems in the future if we continue." He didn’t say a word; he just let out a sigh, almost as a sign of defeat before kissing me once more.
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