He sits back and smiles. He knows what to do to me. He knows how to turn me to jelly. I want to shrug it off as a personal, private function that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with him. I know he doesn’t want to hear it. He only wants to slip his fingers into my slick, wet vagina. Into my pussy, into my cunt. He wants to play with me a little, to feel all that I have to offer. He wants to fuck me, no more, no less. It doesn’t have all these conations with him. It’s merely a function, something he wants to do, he doesn’t put all this brainwork into it.
Why should he?
But I want to make him pay first. I know his ways. After we’re done, he’ll leave. He won’t stay to hold me, to kiss me, to tell me that he loves me. He won’t stay. He’ll leave softly, in the same manner that he came. A few days later, I’ll receive flowers and a note: “Same time next week”.
And I’ll be here, waiting, wanting him. Listening for his fucking footsteps, his slow, almost hesitant knock on the door. I’ll be waiting, wanting, needing him. God, how I hate myself for needing him.
Slowly, his hand makes its way up my leg then rests flat on my pussy. He doesn’t move it because he knows the heat from his fingers will soon drive me wild. I can feel the heat off his fingers, so strong it almost burns. They wait, those fingers, with an urgency for my next movement.
I smile down at him. I’ve tired of the game, too. He is mine now. For one instant, he is truly mine. He doesn’t belong to anyone else but me. That’s why I let him come back. That’s why I let him treat me the way he does. That’s why I let him use me. Right now, I get to call the shots. He needs me to manipulate him. He needs me to hold back. He likes it. It keeps him returning to the security of our time together, suspended in time for one instant to become one. One. One with each other. One alone. One outside each other we always seem to float.
I can’t stand it any longer. Slowly, I unbutton my shirt, giving him his own personal striptease. His smile deepens. This is his favorite part.
The shirt falls off my back. I sit in front of him partially naked. I sit as still as a cat about to pounce on a mouse.
His eyes meet mine. Blank. I glance away, then back. No emotion stems from him. His penis, hard as a rock, gives off a slight quiver. He doesn’t love me, I know.
His eyes devour my breasts.
I know that I am truly a whore. I don’t take any money from him. But I am a whore, imprisoned by this passion, this love I feel for someone who feels nothing, absolutely nothing for me. It angers me, but there isn’t anything I can do about it.
I place my hand on his shoulder to hold him back. He squirms under the weight of it as I press harder. He wants my breasts now, he wants to touch them, fondle them, make them his own. He wants to feel their softness, the skin is so soft, so unlike his own. He wants me, or maybe, he just wants my body.
I close my eyes and anticipate what is to come. Automatically, I tense, for he is rough and uncaring when it comes to fucking me.
