Slow Motion

“I want to fuck you,” he says.

He’s over me, then he’s between my wide-open legs. His beautiful head, bald from a recent shaving, is shining in the light. It moves ever so often.

I know what he wants. I know I can stop him if I want to. I know I can make him crawl. I want to make him crawl. I need to know his devotion.

It’s beautiful, this head between my legs. I touch it gently, then push it back down when he tries to glance up at me.

I like to tease him.

He is totally naked. The shadows from the moon cast delicate rays of light all over his body so that he appears to be in a dream. And, maybe, he is.

His body is taunt with passion for me. Only me. His penis erect, ready to fill me. His eyes yearning and resentful. He hates these games. He says they make him feel small. So be it. Now he knows how I feel.

He pulls back and away from me.

I am fully clothed. I sit on the couch, my legs are still open. I tease him by moving my legs this way and that. The rest of my body is at ease, not tense like him.

“I want to fuck you,” he says again.

He reaches up my skirt and yanks the panties from my body. They fly over his head and land near the muted television set. The are wet with my need for him. I grow embarrassed. I want to hurt him and the wetness between my legs is an indication of my weakness.

I push him away but he has noticed the change in my body. He knows I want him. His eyes rest on my nipples, naked under the sheer fabric of my blouse and he stares at them, hard and piercing.

I cross my arms.

He sits back and smiles. He knows what to do to me. He knows how to turn me to jelly. I want to shrug it off as a personal, private function that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with him. I know he doesn’t want to hear it. He only wants to slip his fingers into my slick, wet vagina. Into my pussy, into my cunt. He wants to play with me a little, to feel all that I have to offer. He wants to fuck me, no more, no less. It doesn’t have all these conations with him. It’s merely a function, something he wants to do, he doesn’t put all this brainwork into it.

Why should he?

But I want to make him pay first. I know his ways. After we’re done, he’ll leave. He won’t stay to hold me, to kiss me, to tell me that he loves me. He won’t stay. He’ll leave softly, in the same manner that he came. A few days later, I’ll receive flowers and a note: “Same time next week”.

And I’ll be here, waiting, wanting him. Listening for his fucking footsteps, his slow, almost hesitant knock on the door. I’ll be waiting, wanting, needing him. God, how I hate myself for needing him.

Slowly, his hand makes its way up my leg then rests flat on my pussy. He doesn’t move it because he knows the heat from his fingers will soon drive me wild. I can feel the heat off his fingers, so strong it almost burns. They wait, those fingers, with an urgency for my next movement.

I smile down at him. I’ve tired of the game, too. He is mine now. For one instant, he is truly mine. He doesn’t belong to anyone else but me. That’s why I let him come back. That’s why I let him treat me the way he does. That’s why I let him use me. Right now, I get to call the shots. He needs me to manipulate him. He needs me to hold back. He likes it. It keeps him returning to the security of our time together, suspended in time for one instant to become one. One. One with each other. One alone. One outside each other we always seem to float.

I can’t stand it any longer. Slowly, I unbutton my shirt, giving him his own personal striptease. His smile deepens. This is his favorite part.

The shirt falls off my back. I sit in front of him partially naked. I sit as still as a cat about to pounce on a mouse.

His eyes meet mine. Blank. I glance away, then back. No emotion stems from him. His penis, hard as a rock, gives off a slight quiver. He doesn’t love me, I know.

His eyes devour my breasts.

I know that I am truly a whore. I don’t take any money from him. But I am a whore, imprisoned by this passion, this love I feel for someone who feels nothing, absolutely nothing for me. It angers me, but there isn’t anything I can do about it.

I place my hand on his shoulder to hold him back. He squirms under the weight of it as I press harder. He wants my breasts now, he wants to touch them, fondle them, make them his own. He wants to feel their softness, the skin is so soft, so unlike his own. He wants me, or maybe, he just wants my body.

I close my eyes and anticipate what is to come. Automatically, I tense, for he is rough and uncaring when it comes to fucking me.

He rapes me then. He rapes my body, my cunt, my vagina. My soul. He takes what he wants and gives me pleasure without knowing he does so.

My soul is above me now as he slides in and out of me. Now he is teasing me. Making me want him. Making me give in.

I grab his shoulders and hold him still for a moment. I feel the tightness of my cunt as it holds his body in mine. And it holds him in me.

Him. I want him. Only him, with the beautiful bald head, shiny in the light, with the dark, dark eyes which say everything I need them to say now, which beg me to let him move on. To let him have me.

Me. Him. Us. One. We are one now. One. This is our moment. Now we can love each other as we were meant to. As our orgasms cry in our bodies to be unleashed, to be released. To be set free. But I don’t want it so soon.

I want him for another moment. I want that moment to convince him. In that moment he can truly love me, like the way I lie to myself about loving him.

But he is a man. He kisses my hand off his shoulder, taking one finger into his mouth. To tease me. The sweet, soft-tickling sensation sends me into frenzy. As always. I am so predictable.

I begin to move again. He joins in. He moves over me, lays me back and he starts fucking. Quickly. Softly. Slowly. Quickly. He is about to come. He is about to leave me again.

I forget about everything else and concentrate only on my pleasure. My legs come up and around his waist. I grab his shoulders and we move more quickly. Soon we are bouncing up and down on the couch. It makes a squeaking noise.

All at once, we rise, our bodies pressed closely together as we are released into the magical land of freedom our souls can give us.

One.

Then, he’s gone. He’ll be back next week, same day, same time. The same thing will happen. Then he’ll go away again.

I whisper, “Please, don’t come back.”

I close my eyes and know he will.