Author's note: This is the first part in a multi-part story detailing a couple's final hours together. I purposely withheld too many extraneous details regarding character development, external description and background because, for me, it is the eroticism, the sex and the connection that fuel my stories and me. These stories are me.
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It had been months since we touched. Your scent no longer plagued me. I had to search to remember the feel of your hands on my face, your fingers in my mouth. My fantasies had become dark and hollow, void of feeling, without you. My orgasms shallow and cold. Almost like a simple reflex. Like a dulled, involuntary reaction.
We had had no real ending. Just a whirlwind of pain and hurt that rattled our already separate lives. The result of our reckless passion and inability to disengage from one another. The intensity with which we fucked was equal to that of the daggers we used against each other in the end.
I needed closure. I needed to feel you again, one last time, experience our connection. I needed you to make me come and I wanted to fully enjoy you, feel your dick inside of me. Everywhere. Filling up all of my holes, one at a time.
I walked into the dark room, a strange combination of fear and want stirring inside of me. It made my breath tremble and my heart race. You were waiting for me. Nervous yourself because you knew what this meant for both of us. You stood up as I softly closed and locked the door behind me. We said nothing. You approached me, slid your hand across my cheek, pressed your forehead into mine and stared deeply into me. My pulse throbbed in my ears and I felt warmth between my legs at just your touch. You moved your mouth to my neck and kissed me gently, moving your lips to my ear while one hand cupped my full breast and the other ripped into my hair. My hips thrusted forward as my head fell back. I had missed you more than I realized.