She looked up at, then past him, brown as the cherrywood lingerie chest she could see over his shoulder. The favorite part of the act was over - - the part where he kneeled above her, his dick poised just at the entrance of her waiting pussy. The slow penetration was always-- no matter how much she wanted it to reflect her growing apprehension at their relationship and his ever-present coldness (except in the bedroom, and then only for the sake of his ego)-- a mini-seduction. It was the last give-and-take, the last remaining flirtation, unconscious and slippery and gratifying; the last honest thing between them now.
He was looking down at her with his usual quizzical expression, that mix of "Yeah, you let me fuck you again even though you love me and I know you love me and you know that I don't love you and you think I only love myself and you're right but it doesn't matter because I'm the one fucking you right now and we both know it feels good" and "Ahh, pussy; I love this shit" that she'd learned to recognize after the initial haze of ex-virginity novelty and then, her blind love for him had worn off. His thick, wood-brown cock wetly sluiced in and out, (thank God for lubricated condoms), and her hips began the slow, automatic roll they'd learned the first time they'd done this. Her clit, laid bare by the parting of her lips, pouted for the base of his dick. But that move wouldn't come later, she knew.
There had been a time when she'd been unaware of any of this, blinded by her newfound and long-buried sensuality, shoveled underneath layers of insecurity and NiceGirlsDon't and self-righteous Waiting for The Right One.
Instead, She'd gotten Mr. Seems Like The Right One, with his suggestive looks and hands-off dates until just the right time, until she'd been ripe and willing and dripping with the knowledge that yes, she Could Trust Him With This.
She almost laughed at the memory. The pain had been brief, mostly psychological, sure, as she'd owned a dildo before having sex with him. But still: he'd seemed so big, so thick, so strong and sure, just like the rest of him. When she felt that hot, velvet rod push into her, and heard herself gasp and his polite, "Are you okay?", she'd known it was far too late, that she'd just surrendered everything to him. Even then, his lovemaking had a practiced, automated detachment to it, despite his playfulness and those first pleas of "Hold me…yes.... like that; tighter...tighter..." while he slowly moved inside her.
Later on, he'd told her that he'd been inside her once before, when they'd almost had sex. "I was halfway inside you then, but I stopped because you said to. You weren't that tight that night. You were just tense when we finally did it. That's why it hurt."
The insult stung even now, a year and a half later. She stopped herself from looking into his eyes, afraid of what she might betray if she did. He was still pumping steadily, no doubt thinking she was on the brink. She gave a moan of resolution, and hoped he'd take it as encouragement.
"You're holding back," he said. She didn't have to see the knowing smile because it was in his voice.
She didn't answer.
Dick sliding in and out of pussy, making all the sounds she used to adore, the warm softness that would begin in her belly and ripple outwards until her entire body was abuzz and ready until it thrummed and tensed and parts of her felt they would coil until she broke like light in a prism.
