I like spontaneous things. Believe me, I do. But when I have an evening planned that features me going through all my philosophy goodies, ordering-in, and possibly watching a DVD, asking me "Can I come over?" is a spontaneous I don't like. I'd planned for another me night.
Until he showed up.
He was coming at seven, just enough time for me to smell good and get touchable and soft, which consisted of me exfoliating with a margarita sugar scrub, and then frantically searching through my underwear drawer for the sexiest underwear I could find.
A woman knows when she's going to be bad.
Oh, was I bad. But I wasn't that bad. Here's the thing: Things got really hot while I was showing him my underwear. The way he kissed me made me forget all the rules.
He came here to do damage. "Let me..." he said, breathlessly. His warm fingers navigated my dripping sex and massaged my clitoris. I yelped, but I didn't stop him. I couldn't. His head descended. I couldn't stop him. Trust me, I tried. Fuck, I tried.
After I came, he made an offer: "One stroke. Just one fucking stroke, please."
I stared at his wet, eager face. "What are you? A horny frat boy?" I asked, still shaking. I wanted to go to sleep. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted him gone. I wanted him here. I wanted everything.
I hit the floor, it was warm. Spread.
He kept his word, even when I felt like I wanted him to break it.
A lovely penis. Girth. Length. Good things.
I wanted sleep. He granted it to me. But I had to get this out before my head hit the pillow. I feel so different. I've gone to the next level, even if tomorrow I feel like shit about everything. But this moment counts right now. And at this moment, I feel beautifully different.