Men don't make love to me. Men fuck me, and that's how I like it. I'm not one for all the romance and emotion, I just like the feel of a good hard strong man's body up against me. I know it's not very ladylike, but it's true.
Last night a man fucked me -- I woke up this morning with the bedsheets still damp with our sweat, the scent of sex filling the air, and him lying beside me, breathing gently. I lay still and looked down at my own body, my breasts gently rising and falling with each breath, the gentle curve of my belly disappearing under the warm duvet. Yes, I know I've got a few spare pounds here and there, especially around my arse and thighs, but it's not unhealthy -- I'm just heavy, and guts seem to like it. Last night, particularly -- he'd got my thighs, and had not been able to stop touching them -- stroking, kissing, slapping, licking, biting. Slim girls can't get things like that.
After the thighs he went down on me. He didn't need any encouragement -- there wasn't any need to beg him for it, no need to promise anything in return. He was good. Not the best, but he was trying. At first it was just kissing and kissing and kissing, but then he slipped his tongue between my lips, and his fingertips.
He's moving in his sleep. He looks so gentle, so innocent now. He's smiling a bit, and I want to run my finger over his sensitive lips. He's not bad looking really, seeing him now. There was a slight scratch down his face, and I wondered if it had been my fingernails. I knew he'd probably have his claw-marks in his back and his buttocks. I tend to have to hold on really tight, especially when things get a bit rough.
My injuries were less. I had a dull ache between my legs, and my breasts were hurting. They're big enough to swing around quite a bit, and they sometimes get quite sore. I think he must have been biting them harder than I remembered. I stroked my nipples gently, wondering if I should go to the bathroom and salve them with Savlon. But I quite liked the feeling -- I'd be okay until I had to put a bra on, and then they might rub a bit.
Yesterday's clothes were strewn on the floor, like in a film. My t-shirt was over the end of the bed, my trousers entwined with his by the door. My panties were beside the bed, his boxers were somewhere. On the floor there were three condoms, all tied off, all used. He must have been saving up, cos they all seemed quite full. I knew he'd blown a load all over my chest too, when I was titfucking him, so three more seemed amazing. Usually I'd get them flushed away straight away, but I must have been so exhausted.
It's have past eight now. He'll wake up soon, and decide if he still wants me. I'm not bothered either way -- even if I am the fat girl his mates ridicule him for, I'll know he fucked me, and he enjoyed every last second of it.
So, three times. I try to piece the evening together. Getting home, undressing. I'd sat on the edge of the bed while he went down on me. Then I'd laid back, and pressing his cock between my boobs, letting him rock back and forth. I rub my neck, and feel the dry smear of when he'd first let it go.
Then something had happened. I look around the room and see the Champagne bottle at the foot of the bed. I say Champagne, I mean Cava. He'd opened it, I think, and we'd drunk some, straight from the bottle. Maybe that's my my memories are a bit hazy. I know he took me from behind at one point. Not anal, but doggy-style, as we used to call it. I remember him thrusting up against my buttocks, which felt really cold against his warm skin, and really wide compared to the tautness of his body. I remember him reaching down to steady my boobs, and grabbing them when he came. I didn't feel like faking, so just stayed there, on my hands and knees, until he recovered.
"Ohgod," he said, "I just couldn't help myself -- you are so perfect".
