“Do you want to know what he did to me?”
“You may tell me anything you want to tell me.”
I reached my hand down between my legs and found myself embarrassingly wet. My love’s cock was becoming erect.
I tell him that you fucked me, but not when, not where, not how. I start to tell him these things, but stop myself. The details that excite me so seem not so much to make my love cringe as to make him stop paying attention. He sees my hand slip down between my legs again, my finger circling around my clitoris.
“Put my finger there. Show me exactly what you are doing to yourself.” He does it, too. I take his hand.
“Let me do it, and then you do what you told me you imagined doing to me while I masturbate.”
His finger reaches inside of me, hitting my g-spot hard. I circle my clitoris more vigorously, feel completely free, free as I feel waves rush over me. “He has a deep voice, and talks to me with that accent, tells me what he wants to do to me.”
“I somehow sensed he was dominant.”
I think not always, but I don’t say so, let my love remind me of my consistent fantasies that begin by pushing me roughly onto the bed.
My love moves down to kiss my pussy now, a tongue circling my tender clitoris, making me come once, twice… He can always do this, and yet, this afternoon I want him to fuck me, hard, harder, while I tell him about you. I want to share you, your delightful body, you delightful you.
“I cannot,” he says.
I feel his love, his sorrow. I feel him, as he looks back at life, at all that he told me he wanted from me, and I know he is going to begin to cry again. He is not jealous of this, of us, but once more choosing to let go of life, let go. I do not want him to let go.
I hold his hand and dress, just hold him. My love finds no joy in life anymore, not even with me. I want him, want to share in all the joy of life with him, but he no longer comes with me.
Oh, my love, where are you?