"Once upon a time," he said, "there was a girl who wanted to be fucked."
"What was her name?" I asked.
"It doesn't matter. There's only one thing that matters in this story."
"That the girl wanted to be fucked?"
"She really, really wanted to be fucked. She wanted to be fucked deep and hard and long, over and over and over."
"By you?"
He paused, the silence suggesting, Of course, who else? "That's understood," he said finally.
"How did she want to be fucked?" I asked, eager for his answer. The fingers poised at my vagina were twitching, rubbing together, slick with juice. My breathing quickened.
His deep, throaty chuckle sent chills and heat chasing each other all over my body; god, I loved his voice. "First," he said, "she wanted to be kissed for a long time, mouths open, tongues in each other's mouths, both of them getting hotter and hotter until he was fucking hard and she was begging him to fuck her."
I moaned quietly and closed my eyes, thinking of that moment, my hands on his chest, his ass, his thighs, sliding over smooth, tight muscles and bristly hair, thinking of the body that housed him, who he was. I thought of his hands on me, rough palms on smooth, sensitive skin, holding my breasts, fingers pinching my nipples. Could you ever get tired of touching, of exploring the contours and textures of that other person, of the frantic sexual tension and anticipation? I didn't think so; although it probably would depend some on who the other person was. Right now, I was grateful that he was my other person. "Then what?" I asked, nearly breathless.
"Then," he said, losing the detachment of the narrative, "I'll put my mouth over those tits and suck those big nipples for hours, one after the other, until they're so sensitive you scream. And I'll slide my fingers into that warm, wet pussy and rub my thumb over your clit until you come."
I groaned, louder this time, as the waiting fingers dived right into my slick, waiting cunt, and I started humping that hand like it was his hard dick in me.
