“To be frank, I can’t make anymore promises regarding our sessions…Will you promise to at the very least keep in touch?”
“Yes, we can keep in touch…”
“…I will also say I’m a little salty you didn’t write about our last session…God, the sexist thing about you is how you maneuver the English language…”

I didn’t know our last fuck would be our last fuck.

“Aren’t we so fun…”
“Fun and frustrating in equal parts.”
“What’s so frustrating?”
“Sir, you must know this conversation is making me horny. Not waking up to fucking you last night, or this morning, made me horny. Thinking about your dick in any and all of my holes is making me horny.”

He came seeking pussy for what I didn’t know would be the last time simply from the power of my words. Texts at 5:30am because I woke up horny.

Sloppy head.

Calling him Daddy, and him calling me a Good Girl.

It was good, and, as always, never as long as I wanted it to be.

I rode his face and made myself let go, pushed myself to grind my pussy to my satisfaction rather than my usual cautious gingerly face fucking. I gagged for him, gave him better head than I had others in quite some time. I wanted more. I always want more.

I striped the bed naked, my ass backing up towards him standing at the edge, and earned a final fuck on his way out, fast and hard and deliciously dirty.

At the front door, I told him to go sit on the couch. I wanted his dick in my mouth one more time. He really had to go this time. Next time. There was no more time. There is no more time.

Keep in touch, though I may never touch him again.

We had an awkward (cause we are over explaining awkward people) conversation about why he doesn’t do sleepovers per his rules with his wife. I over explained how he didn’t have to worry about me catching feelings. This was friendship with fucking. And then he stood me up two weeks in a row and our interactions (well lack there of) felt like he was lacking on both fronts.

And the truth came. And that was that.

Keep in touch, when all I want to do is touch you, taste you. It almost felt cruel, the irony.

So here I am, back at square one, trying to find another consistent dick who isn’t a dick.

Fuck, that dick was good.

But we’ll always have text message flirting, I guess…

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