He is my favourite fuckboy, but don’t tell him that. He has just the right mix of cheeky and kinky. Oh, and he lives 10 minutes away.
Sometimes the thought of fucking is more exciting than actually doing it. There is no build up with him. I normally contact him to ask if he’s free, he takes ages to reply and then eventually submits and comes over.
I don’t go through all my normal prep for some reason. Yes, I have special underwear on. Yes, I’m turned on and touch myself and check I smell good. I don’t slick myself with lube though. It’s just a precaution: I don’t do it every time, only when I feel I need to. And this time I forget.
So when his fingers roughly find their way right into my pussy without a word, it hurts. A lot. And it shocks me because it doesn’t normally. And I surprise myself because I don’t say anything. A part of me enjoys how it feels. And then I worry: is it my age? Is a dry pussy a symptom, nay a warning: “you fuck too much girl it’s payback”.
I don’t have long to think about this as he’s flipped me over and is licking me out. The pain subsides and the pleasure seeps over me. And then my clit begins to throb at his touch and everything is sore. This time I grab the lube and slather it over my parts, it stings and I wince a little. He questions why and I tell him it hurts. And I feel pretty bad.
He grabs my hips from behind and I pass him a condom. It feels better now he’s inside me. But still not quite right. I’m annoyed with my body for letting me down and the fact I’m worried about it makes me enjoy it far less than usual. He doesn’t notice all this internal monologue and fucks me hard over the side of the bed, coming with a quick grunt.
When he leaves, all I can think about is climbing into the bath.