My Addiction 11

"You've never gotten over me; have you?"

The scent of her body, fresh from her morning shower, failing to mask the musk of her horny cunt and you there, on your knees, pressed backward by the weight of her upon your mouth. Down, down, legs spread-eagled, arse hitting the floor, and you grab her thighs for support as you feel yourself fall beneath her and you try to control it all the time slurping the molten fluids pouring from her hot pussy into your mouth.

No, you'd never gotten over her. Like every addiction you'd dealt with it cold turkey: cut her out; endured the horrendous aftershock and then it was a matter of daily fortitude until, finally, the blessed day when she was no longer at the forefront of your mind. But now, like a movie alcoholic testing himself with an unopened bottle, here you are sitting across from her; because she called.

She would cum all night long: what was your record? I remember eight, or was it nine one unrelenting night and three again the following day and she always squirted twice or thrice amid the sweat and funk and sodden sheets that tied themselves in clinging knots about you frantically coupling pair.

"It took me a while"

You lie and lie and hope it doesn't show on your carefully composed face. You even hold her eye...momentarily, before you slide them down to guide your hand to the glass of amber alcohol and hide your blushes...light hope you'd made that believable! (inwardly you cursed yourself for a fool)

She always came on your cock: each first and penultimate always with your hard rod deep inside her -- cum inside me Baby

And you would, even though she spurned birth control -- affected her libido, she claimed, and you'd heard it was true for some and so believed it. Truth was she wanted a child, even then, young as you both were for such responsibility.

"How many kids did I hear you have now?"

It seems a safe question, though it follows your internal monologue too closely for comfort. Next you'll be talking of frenetic pussy worship...deep creampie diving as you desperately attempt to remove every last fucking sperm from her womb, knowing as you do that it's already too late if the deed has been done it is done.

Amazingly, in all the time you were together: four years of fucking and not one scare. With your wife, once you decided to try and she went of birth control, first time. Crazy life; ain't life crazy?

You laugh out loud at the thought; she's looking at you funny and you realise she's answered the fucking question and you missed it. How many did she say? Four, that's what you heard. Four, a safe number you definitely heard an F sound so four or five. Stick to four. Four's safe.

"Sorry, just thinking how crazy it is that we're sitting here and we're both parents now. Life is funny sometimes..."

Again, you've saved it! You take a sip -- a precious, single malt with just the merest suggestion that water may have passed the glass by on its journey from the bar to your table - and glance in her direction.

Fresh from the shower, wet hair dripping onto your forehead, chin on her chest, cunt pinning your head to the wooden floor, spraying unrelentingly over your face, down your throat, up your nose, dowsing your face in her juice, your head pressed into the ever-expanding cum puddle.

Remember the first time it happened? You both thought she'd pissed herself with excitement. It got you both so excited you tried it in the shower the next day before you realised what had actually happened. It was so regular you had to buy a rubber under-sheet -- along with daily changes of bedclothes. The mortification of having to buy it in-store! Who says online shopping is over-rated?

"You were so submissive then; are you still?"

You gasp aloud, sink deep into the worn plush of the bar-room chair and hold your breath, thinking furiously. What kind of question is that? How should you answer? Yes? Yes! You are submissive, still, but do you tell her? Do you tell her that it's gone so much further now? That you dress for your wife? That you take her cock? That yours has been useless since you left her except it's draped in silks, satins, lace and frills?

What kind of question is that? Would she laugh to know of her everlasting, emasculating impact? It was for the best...she needed to be cut out...you wouldn't have survived: would you?

You smile and play for time (God she still looks as fresh as the first time) -- soft kisses in fading black dawn-light through cheap, unlined curtains amid a throng of sleeping bodies, all sleeping bar you and this nymph whose playful fingers have found your fly, undone it with practiced ease and are now squeezing your balls with an insistence skirting the edges of sadistic while her tongue competes in infinity motions against yours. Tiptoe to a 50's bathroom with frosted glass paneled door and no fucking lock! No problem the bathtub's taken by another drunken reveller: pants to knees skirt hiked up, panties torn in the haste of their removal (I still have them in a memory box in the attic).

A quick, nasty fuck that still leaves my thighs soaked as she hitches her tight ass onto the window sill for a modicum of comfort. I swear that tongue never left my mouth from our first couch-bound kiss to emptying my load between the cheeks of her ass.

"Yes"

Still submissive, still unable to hide any truth from her searching gaze, still in thrall to the bottle, tested myself after all these years and failed -- Addiction runs deep -- the ache remains, the need never leaves you. A single, softly spoken word tears aside the years of recovery. She smiles:

"Tell me!"