Diary: Remembering Robert

...He was most impressed by the fantasies of myself with other women he'd drive out of me...

He'd usually wrest out such confessions by bringing me just to the brink of orgasm; maybe he'd straddle my splayed body, kneeling, one hand low between my thighs, one finger, two fingers slightly bent and slowly coaxing in and out of me, his thumb exploring the soft wet folds surrounding my clit in teasing circles, his face hovering just over mine, breath caressing my skin, allowing his full, softly parted lips only a slight brush against my own panting open mouth.

"Oh, poor baby," he'd coo to me, slowly withdrawing his sticky, coated fingers, hovering them with a barely perceptible touch, only at the opening. "Do you want something?"

"Yes!" In again, halfway. "Yes!!"

I arch to reach his mouth as he pulls away, pulls out again. I can only moan, want to scream my frustration as he bends his head down again, sweet breath, that cooing, those seemingly-innocent doe eyes, he's so full of shit, controls me completely.

Coyly, he whispers, "Tell me what you want..." Three fingers now. Deeper. I arch my back, spread my legs wider for him.

"You!" I rasp, ravaged, already, with desire. I recognize the cool look in his eye, power pride- he wants me to beg, to whimper.

"Ohhhhh," he replies with a false sigh, dwelling on the syllable, his hand moving slowly, too, in, out, in, out; his thumb massaging just outside my swollen clit, my nipples erect, I am frantic with desire. "I'm not all you want," he pouts, falsely. "Oh, no. I'm sure of it. Not all..." In, out.

"Touch me, please!" I'm begging. Begging, now, yes, begging.

He leans his head next to mine, mouth next to my ear, the scent from his hair enveloping me. "Tell me what you really want," he purrs, his hot breath a soft, echoing taunt that travels, tingling, from my ear to every extremity.

While still twisting his hand in probing semicircles he slowly removes his coated fingers; but before I can clamp together my legs to compensate for the void, as he knows I will do, his knees are wedged between them, spreading me farther and farther apart, open, seemingly, to the world, the cold air itself arousing against my glistening, strained lips, the muscles in my groin straining, straining, as he holds me down so firmly with his knees.

His fingers are glazed with wetness and holding a stare he fills my mouth with them. I suck them clean with closed eyes, tasting, inhaling my own musky scent, my mouth thankful to be occupied, even while my pussy is aching and exposed, begging to be filled.

I can't stop squirming and he knows this, loves this. With a thwack of his open palm he slaps my flank, stinging. I'm startled back to reality and stare back at him. Oh, those false sympathetic eyes!

"Who's a bad girl?" he asks, pouting, his palm sliding up my body from the flank to squeeze, pull, knead my breast. I don't respond, can't respond, just look up and breathe.

"Can't answer a simple question," he chides. "Oooooh, not so nice."

The expression in his ice-blue eyes turns, ever so slightly; the hands, gruffer now. His fingers leave my mouth and trace the wetness down my face until he's enveloped my neck with one rough, thick hand. He pushes, squeezes, ever lightly, a just reminder, although how could I forget just who, at this moment, has control...

With his hand at my throat he leans down and growls; with a quick nip of teeth to shoulder his strong legs and strategically placed hands flip me over as if I were a feather- and to him, perhaps I am..

I'm on my stomach now, half-faced in pillow, legs still splayed, stretched, him on top of me from behind, his weight taking my breath, increasing my desire. I can feel his hardness against me; his hot breath is in my ear. The cool air teases and plays between my legs as if the air itself is made of fingers. His hand closes tighter around my neck. My breath is shallow and fast.

"What's wrong, pussycat?"

The whispers send shivers through to my exposed core. I can barely take it; I writhe and moan from the sound.

"Poor pussycat..." And he slaps my ass, suddenly, hard, so hard, full on full cheek. I gasp.

"What's wrong?" he coos again, with only a hint of evil. OK, maybe more than a hint.

Caress. Slap. Gasp. He grabs the soft flesh of my side and kneads it. Caress. Slap. Gasp. Knead. Caress. Slap. Gasp. Knead. Until I start to pull away, I'm moving, my breath is ragged, I can't, I can't -

"Can't take it anymore?"

And he's pulled me back and into him in one smooth movement, my head down, arms around pillow... He must be high on his knees, but I don't know- all I can feel is desire and his rough, callused hands moving me where I need to be. I am a triangle, and as he enters me he can see I've been ready for hours, the warm wetness clinging, pulling at him. He rises back behind me, inserts a well-moistened finger into my ass and pushes down, continuing his full possession of me.

But soon he moves to how our two bodies were designed to be, his broadness contacting, covering my own tiny frame while he's yet still inside me, one arm caressing around to end with fingers gently pressuring my clit, the other arm roaming, letting me bite his hand, now it's on my breast, now he's circled around again, but delicately this time, to my throat.

And we're rocking in unison in the height of a sexual collusion between two beasts who have nothing in common but this.

He trumpets his love as we shudder together, our coming warm and spreading inside me. Spent, we collapse, the weight of his body on top of mine a sublime blanket. Fingers entwined, we sleep the contented sleep of passion, until we wake to the noises of fading afternoon.

We rise, and with bare chest and rumpled-hair, he pads into the kitchen and makes me pancakes.

(The end.)