He has just been crowned my longest and most loyal FWB. It’s never straightforward; he’s definitely not at my beck and call. And he lives the other side of the city, so build in travel time and I’m the most hassle to get to, probably. We’re going on for coming up to two years now (yes I’m counting; so what?) and I’ve managed to get over thinking I was in love with him.
But an hour or two spent with him is always lemon meringue pie, with cream on top. Fish and chips with lots of vinegar. Scone with clotted cream and jam, all over your fingers. The perfect sized portion without being too sickly.
We go straight upstairs, no sofa talk this time. He wants to cut to the chase. He stalls a little, checking out my renovations and admiring my decorating. Whereas I’m wondering when he’s going to notice my suspenders.
We stand in my room, each waiting for the other to take charge. He grabs at me, feels my pussy through my dress. I reach for his belt and unhook it from his trousers. But he pushes me away. And then begins our dance.
His lips don’t leave my pussy for the next hour. I have barely touched his cock. We climb over each other, rocking, grinding, biting, sliding. I lose count of my orgasms. I feel like an animal, he is literally feeding on me. We 69 a couple of times, he cant take me deepthroating him, so I spin around and ask him to fuck me.
We start and are very quickly covered in sweat. He makes me stop, he’s too turned on. We lie across each other, scissored and he tells me my ass looks great from that angle. I giggle and slap his arm. He grabs my hands quickly and pushes them down on the bed. We try every position we normally do with a few new ones. He teases by saying he’s going to take my ass: he knows I will never let him. He’s too big for one.
We come together, me on top. It’s too hot and we clamber apart. We lie chatting, like old times. He tells me a long story about how he’s got rid of his dog. He loved that dog, I’d never expect him to do that. I ask about his family and correctly guess his sister is pregnant, a year after her marriage. It’s an oddly comforting conversation, like he’s revealing a little bit of himself to me.
He dresses to go, leaving me his vest which is dripping wet. I’ll wash it of course, and then he has something to come back for.