I am a terrible friend.
I covet my best friend's husband.
The rumors say that men talk about sex all the time with each other. I nailed this girl last night. She was such a hot piece of ass. Men have nothing on women. We get specific, and not just on the macro, but the micro level.
I close my eyes and picture you naked. Because of Karen's detailed descriptions, I know the exact shade of brown of your nipples, erect after my teeth torment them. The shape of the birthmark I'll skim as my fingers trail up your inner thigh. Your ass tensing when my nails bite into your skin when I suck your uncut cock. Yes, I know all about your intact foreskin.
She didn't want to try that. Or that. She asks me, "Why is he such a freak in bed?" A drumbeat pounds in my clit as I picture bending over your desk, bottle of lube next to my hip in invitation. My skin would be bruised from the cane she threw out while you were on a business trip and blamed on the cleaner. Rope could abrade my skin as you make the knots tighter.
You and Karen have been fighting.
Glee hides beneath a mask of concern.
You're a neat freak and she's a slob. I could've told you that. We shared a dorm room for four years and I bore witness to the empty soda cans built into a castle next to her laptop. Was the overflowing laundry basket full of dirty clothes or clean? Only a sniff-ew-could tell. Would you pick these fights if you were happier?
