"Tell me a story," she said, rolling to her side, her back to him, so he could spoon against her. Late afternoon winter sunshine angled in through her bedroom's bamboo blinds and that, along with the candles she habitually burned on the bedside table, gave the room a sepia tint. This is the way they usually spelled themselves and talked between fucks.
He was hoping that she wasn't interested in a long story. It had been a week since they'd been together and had just gone at each other like animals—a fast, hard, pent-up-lust fuck, classic missionary as he hammered into her without restraint. It took just a few minutes of wild thrusting before she did that thing she did when he was on top of her—place the flat of her hand between them against this chest, which was his signal to stop and hold his erect cock still and deep inside her while she carefully ground her clit down against the base of his shaft, growing intensely quiet. At the instant she'd turned the corner, that momentary transformative interlude—the gap between the lightening flash and its attendant thunder—she'd said, "Oh, fuck me hard, baby!" at which point he'd resume pounding her, and her orgasm began its long ripple through her; she'd clutched at his ass as if she was trying to cram all of him into throbbing cunt. And he, who enjoyed watching and feeling her come as much as he enjoyed his own coming, emptied what felt like a massive load inside her, a week's worth of hot cream. He knew he'd be ready again soon, and as usual, they only had so much time.
"A true story," she said. "One of your sexual adventures."
"Oh, you know I don't like to fuck and tell," he said, draping his arm over her hip and beginning to run his fingers over the small mound of her belly. He loved that spot on her, loved to kiss it and rest his cheek against it whenever he would finger-fuck her, just before slipping down to eat her. "Besides, won't that make you jealous?"
"Only if it's happened within the last couple years."
"Well, you know all the sexual adventures of the last couple years first-hand," he said.
"Something from your raw youth, then," she said, almost sleepily.
"Okay," he said. "Let's see. I was 24 years old, and had already been married to my wife for two years."
"So young," she murmured, though she knew how young he'd married and how long it had been—same as her.
"Too young," he said. "We were living in Boston where my wife was doing her graduate work. I had parlayed my astute degree in literature into a job as a junior copy writer for an advertising agency."
"Impressive," she said.
"Yes, it was. You can't imagine how valuable my intimate familiarity with 17th century revenge tragedy turned out to be when writing copy for cheese snacks and body wash."
"You're right, I can't. Not even going to try."
"Anyway, there was a girl who worked in the art department there, a sturdy blonde of Scandanavian origins. Cindy Erikkson."
"Oo. You're first true blonde?" she said.
"As I was to discover. She was several years older than me, and a California native to boot. Very friendly, very outgoing. Not exceptionally large breasts, but just right for her size. She wasn't... overweight, but she was just... like I said, sturdy. A well-built woman."
"Curvy?"
"Curvy, yes, definitely. You're making this take longer than it needs to, at least to get to the good parts."
"Sorry," she said, "I'm just trying to picture her."
"Turned-up nose," he said. "Round, firm breasts. Good bottom, sturdy thighs. Straight blond hair that was very fine. Remember, I was very young, and still seething with a lot of that young man's lust."
"You're wife just wasn't doing it for you at the time?"
