His Hands

I think about his hands around my neck as he pumped his first load into me. His fierce thrusts shook my body, I watched his mouth chase my nipple before he caught it with his teeth and sucked hard and with swirling tongue and pulsing pleasure. He always sucked my nipples. No matter where we were, he found a way to back me into a corner, open my blouse, or lower my top and lift a breast out of my lace. He always liked me to wear very tight shirts in winter, because he got so hard watching my nipples poke my shirt.

Keeping me guessing about what he'd do next with me, aroused my addictive personality. I don't know if I was born with that, or it developed and he capitalized on it for both our pleasure. He taught me to crave his touch, whether he was rough or tender, in public adult only places, or in private.

He taught me to ride his extended finger until I came and always insisted that I look into his eyes while I came; no hiding that pleasure from him. He seemed to drink in my orgasmic energy.

I must stop typing, now. There is a knock at my door...