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Romantic Sexy Story. Favorite Lover. Perfect Cock.

This time it is different, it is a romantic sexy story. I am surprised. 

In absence of him it is lust that breaks through. Deep, reptilian reflex desire. I love him, sure, but in the background. In the foreground I want to consume him. It is him at the very end of frenzied fucking or wanking or sucking, his body tense as pleasure takes him screaming into orgasm. This is how I see him. Wreathed in erotic need.

Not today. Today, outside the glass doors stands my favorite lover. He is my height. His hair is shorter than I last saw it on camera. He’s wearing a sweater I’ve never seen in person over familiar clothing. It is colder, now, than it was the other times we have met.

I step forward to trigger the automatic doors.

The doors open and he is in my arms. He smells of cigarettes and alcohol, but they are both faint. He smells of him. Of life. Winter leaving into spring. Wool and sweat and the sting of pharma.

In my arms. I can’t take it all in. Not here and now. 

“You’re here.” he repeats, throughout the night. He says it now. I see in him what is in me.

I am overwhelmed with love. Struck. I have forgotten myself and him and who we are together. And this first contact, this swaying hug, this heart touch.

My heart unfolds into a romantic sexy story.

Touching him gingerly. Hugging him. The love and sweetness is so overwhelming that it takes me a moment to feel how my cunt has tightened and my clit is throbbing.

My body doesn’t care for this romantic sexy story. It just wants his cock hilt-deep. No patience, no understanding, no boundaries. It just wants to be full of him. Now.

In some compromise I invite him upstairs.

We make our way, awkwardly. In my room, we stand, holding each other. Hugging. Dancing, rubbing our bodies together.

Such hate and love have passed between us. We are weak and wounded. Rubbing together to create the spark some small, eternal part of us knows exists. And it does. It lights. There is a deep ignition.

I am dripping wet. Holding him, my clit aches. My pussy swells with blood and lust. 

But that’s outshone. Stronger, this time, than all the lust and the sex and the desire: the love. It tears my heart. 

I feel grounded, somehow, more so than he. He is shy. 

Later he tells me that he misses me more than I know. That he aches.

He is wrong. I know. 

I know that ache. 

Intimately. 

My heart, my gut, my cunt. One whiff of him and all else just doesn’t fucking matter. He is my world. The missing piece. 

The cock that fills my void.

I intend just to hug him, to hold him. He has the flu and cracked ribs and I don’t want to hurt him. But the way his body snakes against mine. That rhythm so bottomless and immeasurable. The pace of his breath, the timbre of his voice. 

We stand near the entrance to my hotel room, holding each other, hugging. Exploring. Fingers run so gingerly along his collarbone. His hands around my waist, finding me, defining me.

He avoids my kiss. Redirects in such smooth dodges that I don’t know whether it’s happening at first. Then once I decide that he’s doing it I analyze why. Is he avoiding the virus? Intimacy? Trying not to take it to the next level? 

I sneak towards his mouth, hoping to catch him, but there is always a turn of his head or a stroke of his hands on my sides, caressing my neck, my breasts.

Some insecure part of me wonders if this is the normal now. I am the mistress that he fucks but doesn’t kiss? Is this the new relationship we are creating out of the ashes of the ruins? The ashes of that fire that I certainly had the upper hand in setting?

Hands everywhere, exploring my body, hair, face.  

And then, he catches my head in both his hands, and I already know before it happens that he has been doing it on purpose. Stoking my need. And now he will slake my greed.

He pulls my head to him and kisses me deeply, slowly, sensually. Our mouths made for one another. Kisses I dream of. Kisses that bring back my belief in kisses. I release all the fear and anxiety. Will he want me? I don’t know but he wants to kiss me. His tongue deep in me and I sucking at his lips, pulling mouthfuls of soft, wet need.

My mind floats along observing. I am jetlagged for this romantic sexy story. I am not fully present and I do not have defenses. In a daze. 

He meets me. We float into each other. Where are boundaries? I am standing with him, kissing him. I cannot tell who is leading and who is following. It is so very much what I want. The perfect kiss. How can it be here, happening, in reality.

“You’re here.” he says.

Flashbacks to standing in the square. That cinematic moment when the camera spirals outward from the kissing couple. I don’t know why him. But him. He’s the subject of my romantic, sexy story. He’s my Favorite.

Sitting in the bed. Each transition noted. Consent asked for. We are still clothed. He can’t get over the art on the wall. Sci-fi refineries in a desert tech city.

The love and sex twine into that perfect chemistry, filling the air with static and bringing out the best of both of us. Joke. Flirt. Kiss.

His hands on me. My hands down his pants. Fingers on his cock. Hard. Familiar, but new.  

Nothing else. Fully present with him. Desire. Heat. My cunt tightens.

Naked finally. His body against mine, still I am gentle. Still. Slow. I cannot hurt his body. He’s battered. I love him.

I have hurt his heart and I try to make up for it by opening mine. He meets me. Maybe exceeds me. 

“We fought” he says. Makes animal noises and pawing motions. 

Of course we fought like animals. We fuck like animals. We’re profoundly intimate and locked into a trust relationship. 

“I’m not angry anymore.” I say.

“I’m not angry anymore either.” he says. He doesn’t sound sure. “But can we, I mean, both sides, can we try not to do that again?”

I look at him. What we have is unsustainable. I can’t hardly tolerate sharing him the way I do. It’s a tragic, romantic, sexy story. At some point I will blame him for the lack of time and priority. I am princess extra and I love to be pampered and he ain’t got time for that.

But today he has time for stroking my soaking wet pussy slowly and softly. So softly so gently I am so shy. It feels so good and so right. His touch perfect. I’ve told him. He’s listened. I can’t tell him now, my eyes close and I back off from his body. It’s nothing but his practiced and expert fingers slowly circling my clit. But I don’t let him speed up, get harder, finish me. I can’t. I walk around feeling him inside me always. And here he is, so close to me. 

My fingers again searching for his cock, I’m surprised to find him hard.

I’m surprised to find myself so wet, so needy. I pull him closer and closer to me. Whimpering. 

Begging.

And then he is rolling on top of me and putting his cock into me. And joking about it during it.

Usually I look him in the eyes, but I do not remember looking him in the eyes. Perhaps I closed my eyes. Perhaps I just wanted to feel him. 

Numb. I’m starting my period and I’m jetlagged and I’ve certainly done a few dabs earlier today and though I feel him in my heart I don’t feel him in my cunt the way I want to. I feel distant there. Perhaps it takes all my focus to suck his cock with my cunt, squeezing and pushing on him.

I see him. His smile. He wants me to fuck him and take him and drain him, but I cannot. I am too afraid of hurting him. 

Symbolic. Physically and emotionally, figuratively and literally: I am afraid of hurting him. He is surprised I view him as fragile and shows up with cracked ribs. 

And so we make love. Gently. Slowly fucking me. Deep kisses, sensual dance of mouths and hands and his cock in my cunt. He pulls up away from me into a push-up position and my hands immediately dip to my clit. I’m wet. Slippery. I can tell I’m not bleeding but I’m the different kind of wet that happens during that time. His cock is slick.

My clit is slick.

I look into his eyes and feel him get harder in my cunt as I bear down on him, tightening my way towards climax. He raises his hips, changing his angle so that the head of his cock shifts on the front wall of my cunt rubbing my clit and then he is fucking me shallowly and steadily, with control and perfection. Fucking my through pain. Injury. Illness. Fucks me through it all.

Cracks through the force field of numbness that keeps my finger harder on my clit straining towards release and he just throws it at me. Fucks the orgasm into me in a swift, perfect show of what he can do with description and words. I’ve told him the romantic, sexy story that ends with this. He listened. He fucked me the way I’ve needed to be fucked. By him. Needed to be fucked by him. Still need to be fucked by him, but…

Everything that happens afterwards is icing and he knows it. He plays for a while. Edges himself with my pussy. Laughs. Jokes. Fucks from behind, the side, on top of me, arm under my leg, fucking me. I love every second. But when he asks me to drive I’m useless. The romantic, sexy story has peaked for me.

Nothing could be hotter than seeing the focus, presence, and galaxies in his eyes as he fucks me into an orgasm I could never have without his specific, perfect, favorite cock inside me. 


The First Time:

Hookup

Barcelona

The Next Time:

How Female Can I Make You Feel?

The Last Time:

Let That Man Sleep

Erotic Story: “i need to fuck you”


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