My text is simple: “I need you. I am on my way.”
She knows that this means. She will be waiting at the door. I live 5 minutes away by car. She will be ready for me. She always is.
When I send this text, it means she will take care of me. I may or may not reciprocate. It will depend on the words she uses. The smile. The caresses. The thanks she gives me for the opportunity.
She is wearing the royal blue, button down dress shirt I left here months ago, when we first started our liaison. I liked that shirt, but she told me that if I left it here, she would wear it when she fingered her pussy.
I went home in a t-shirt.
She is younger than me. But she hinted that her taste in men makes her feel older than her years. She is beautiful, nonetheless. Jet black hair, dark tan from the summer spent by the pool. She is curvaceous and loves that I love that. She is barely 5 feet tall and she says she loves that I am tall. And hard for her, all the time.
The door to her condo is open as I run up the steps, two at a time. She is singing a song that is playing behind her. I do not recognize it. Probably some very popular song but I do not listen to that. We are worlds apart on many things.
But not the need to make me happy.
Does she still feel obligated because I helped land her a job with my friend’s wife’s company? Perhaps. I made some phone calls. I sent the resume. I asked for a favor.
Now, she answers phone inquiries for a national cell phone operator. She gets to work from home, which is good, since she has two kids.
Who are not home now. I know her schedule.
I practically push in the door and I am overwhelmed with the smells: perfume (she always wears it for me) and meat (she is rarely without a pot of soup cooking on the stove).
I slam the door shut and we kiss as I push her into the living room. The music is playing and it is a young woman’s voice. I still do not know who but she is.
She has nothing on under the shirt. Literally, nothing. Her breasts are so round and generous and I dive into them, feasting. She says something but I am not listening. She repeats: “You love my tits.”
I moan and nod. She caresses my face and tells me they are mine.
“I know,” I respond and she laughs. I bite and she changes to a moan.
“Let me stroke you,” she says. “Let me take care of you. You deserve it.”
I love when women pick up on my audio cues. When they tell me the words I want to hear.
“Still standing in the middle of the room, I take down my khaki grey pants and underwear. She instantly puts her hand on my cock and whispers, “This is mine but this is all for you.”
She told me once, maybe a week after we met, that she was my slut. The word hung in the air. It was post coitus as we hugged and caressed. It was not in the heat of sex. It was statement of fact.
“I will make you cum whenever you feel like it. Don’t jerk off. Come here and I will be your slut. So long as the kids are not here, I’m yours.”
And that is how it got to this point. Me fucking her hand as she tells me about a lesbian supervisor who tried to friend her on social media. She says the woman is very pretty and has such a great body from excessive exercise. She asks if I want to watch her kiss the woman. Would I like seeing then undress for me and get in bed with me.
I cum in minutes all over her belly.
I am selfish today. I do not reciprocate. I held her face as I came and I told her she was my slut/whore/bitch. She tells me to sit down. She was making hamburgers. Let her get cleaned up and changed and she will get me one.
I pull up my pants and fix myself. I sit down on the couch and look out the window.
I would like to see her with another woman, but she knows it is all just fantasy. I want her to offer, not necessarily do it. Threesomes can get complicated.
But, I will enjoy the burger and her company. And later, after we have eaten, I will take her onto the couch and finger her pussy, telling her that she wants to fuck a girl for me. Just for me.
Remember, I am selfish. And she loves it.