I let my hand fall between my legs and played with it between my fingers.Was it really something I had learned to do? I suppose, in a manner of speaking, it was. Michael's question sent my mind racing back years earlier, to when I was nineteen and only just beginning to explore the outer limits of what could be inserted where, how hard and for how long.***In some ways it would be perverse to call me a late bloomer, but in others, I had always felt it to be the case. I started dating a kind, gentle boy in school, and we spent the next five years—when we could find the time and the space to do so uninterrupted—having furtive, irregular, deeply sensible sex. Both of us being hesitant and slightly unadventurous, this turned out not to happen all that much; it happened in long afternoons in the school holidays in my small c***dhood bedroom or his, took the form of the occasional handjob in the middle of a densely wooded area or, once, behind a bakery on a school day trip to Dieppe.But,. ... More.” I’m stretched on a rack of sensation, violent, intense, pushing me close, so close to orgasm my womb is rippling with it. So close but not yet. You push inside me, retreat, thrusting deeper with each impalement until I shake, shudder, so filled with you that I’m certain you penetrated my soul. ”There, baby.” You’re in me to the hilt, throbbing, hot, blistering me with passion and need. Lust is spinning through my dazed senses as I whimper, cry. ”Here we go, darling.” You kiss my lips again, a slow benediction of feeling before your hips shift and you begin to move. You begin slowly. Slow and easy, working inside me with each thrust as I strain closer to release. Within minutes you are moving faster, harder, testing the limits of my arousal, my pleasure, holding me on the edge, making me wait until my legs lift further, wrapping your hips and I plead. ”Fuck me, Rich. Fuck me hard. And fast and deep...and... Oh. God.” I’m gone. There isn’t just me any longer. My screams fill.
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