He had me pinned against the wall, his chest pressed tightly against mine, his hands seizing my ribs to either side of my breasts, holding my body in place. Again and again and again, he rose up into me, forcefully, possessively, rapidly in and slowly out, hard enough that I winced a little with each powerful thrust, each lunge causing him to brush against my cervix and keep me on the tips of my toes. Yet I was enjoying it - I needed it, I craved it, I lived for it, and I definitely did not want it to stop.
It was not just the act itself which enthralled me. It was not just the person: the boy-next-door who had moved to the neighborhood in third grade and was immediately an inseparable friend, inseparable to the point that we traveled across the country together to attend the same university and finally consummate our ever-growing love. It was not just the fullness, the feeling of being rendered complete, whole, every time he embedded himself deep inside me, sheathing himself, surrounding himself with my love and my desire and my lust for him. It was not just the hot love seeping from my torso and running down my legs and dripping upon the hardwood floor, adding a scent of the forbidden to the darkened living room.
Just as fiercely as he plundered my body, I clutched at his naked, powerful shoulders, my fingernails burrowing into his well-tanned skin with the intensity of a dog wanting to rapidly bury a bone. That thought seemed particularly apt to me at the moment, as he was repeatedly burying a bone of a very different nature deep within my body.
His face pressed into my neck, his breaths were hot, hard, heavy, just like his sex. He had always been extremely quiet during sex, whether we were enjoying a slow, passionate lovemaking or a hard, rough, violent fuck. Always, the only sounds he made were those of his breathing, and perhaps - just perhaps - a soft groan as his love erupted either into me or upon me.
