The car's engine purred as he drove through the countryside. The road was clear, which made it easy for his mind to wander, to memories recent and old.
He thought of the time when they walked along Elizabeth St through Hyde Park, years ago, and he suddenly tossed her over his shoulder, both of them laughing. There were the times when he met her in her motel room, and they enjoyed each other, though never had sex.
Later, she left, as he pressured her into the sexual activity they both wanted, but without a clear commitment on his part, and she having already committed herself to another man. And that, it seemed, had been the end of their relationship.
Then, years later, he received an email from her, and the connection began all over again, with them meeting at the Mariner's Court, him wrapping his arms around her and just holding holding holding her, as though he could never get enough of her, never let her go. They had had a shower together, and he had manually brought her to orgasm, but they never had sex; that happened the second time they met, when she met him in her white housecoat, he laid her gently back on the bed, and entered her, marvelling at how wide she spread her legs, and how soaking wet she was. And so their meetings, their sexual interludes, began.
They met again at the Executive Inn, where she directed him to kneel on the floor and eat her. He was only too happy to oblige, tasting her copious sweet nectar, humming into her cunt, sucking on her clit, and bringing her to orgasm after orgasm. It was wonderful, yet still he remained somewhat aloof, fearful.
As the years went by, he remembered, they met in different places, different hotels, different cities in North America and Australia. They met, loved, laughed, fucked, and generally just enjoyed their times together. He remembered, too, the difficult times, especially when they had thought she might be pregnant, and worried themselves crazy wondering what to do if she was. In the end, terrified, he told her he would stay with her through it all, and somehow they would make things work. Though he didn't have a clue how that could be, he was sincere and certain. If there was a child, the child would be loved by both, somehow.
He remembered, too, the times when there had been anger between them, she furious that he would not commit to her, always had another commitment, another relationship he had to tend to. Those were difficult times, times when it seemed they could go no further. But somehow they did, these times serving to knock rough edges off their relationship, draw them closer, albeit in a way that tore both of them apart inside, and from the inside.
As he drove, he recalled one of their earliest videos of their fucking, when he was playing her like a fine musical instrument -- and suddenly her toes were curling madly. Watching it together, she had seen it before he did, and burst out laughing; then they both laughed together. Or the time he knelt over her, and she took a picture, of his cock on her forehead and nose. They both enjoyed that one, laughing happily, she more than he, but he enjoyed it too.
He loved the video he had captured of her sucking his cock, her boobs handing down, his reaching out and fondling them. My God, but they were beautiful! And he loved, just absolutely loved, playing with them, feeling them, squeezing them.
He remembered that time when she was lying on her stomach on the bed, his left hand playing with her cunt, his right stroking her pussy, feeling the juices it produced, and stroking up to her anus. It was getting wet, and she was moving her hips up and down, up and down as he stroked her, her arse seeming to grasp at his sliding finger each time. Then at one point, as she moved her hips up, he kept his finger still -- and she pressed up against it, then pressed further -- and his finger slid into her arse. He recalled her immediate and massive orgasm at having her arse finger-fucked. And to top it all off, when they went back to bed, she reached for the lube, as though to encourage him to repeat the experience.
He was pretty sure she had wanted her arse fucked as much as he wanted to fuck it -- indeed one time she had cried out "Fuck my arse, please!". Somehow, though, that never happened. They were both too fearful of the pain it could cause her. She didn't think it would be at all easy or comfortable, and he couldn't bear the thought of causing her pain. And so, they let it go, though it seemed often to be on their minds.
He recalled the times he had visited her, especially the four weeks he had lived with her, attending a conference and writing his paper. That had been so good, for both of them, full of the simple things of life like cooking, cleaning, washing, making beds, visiting friends. And, of course, joyous fucking.
There had been naughtily risky times too; fucking her (wham, bam, thank you ma'am) in the marital bed he shared with his wife; bent over the kitchen chair in Toronto with his wife upstairs; passing him her panties as the three of them walked home from the restaurant in the semi-darkness of the back lane; of her standing, back to him, slowly working the back of her skirt up so he could see her bare arse, but his wife in front of her couldn't.
Times like visiting Montreal and Ottawa (the latter several times) when he had to make trips there. Of the time there when she stood in the doorway between the bedroom and living room, dressed in nothing but lacy black bra, garter, panties and mesh stockings -- and him asking where her whip was.
Of buying those lovely black heels that he loved so much, then having her wear them in the Meriton while he ate her ate her ate her, then fucked her.
