I’ve had to write two letters of complaint in the last two days, which hasn’t been fun. I then opened up a file to start writing the post on style sheets I’ve been promising everyone, but I decided to start a new story instead. This is the beginning:
God, he was a lousy fuck. No foreplay, no variation in rhythm or tempo, no change of position. He didn’t use his hands. And he talked the whole time about how big his cock was and how impressed I must be with it.
Which tool, since he obviously hadn’t a clue what to do with it, wasn’t doing jack shit for me.
“So when are you gonna come, anyway?” he asked.
Idiot. Ten years ago, coming out of a shitty marriage and a worse divorce, I might have repressed a sigh and started moaning, gotten the whole thing over with. This afternoon I rolled him over and smiled down at him from my perch atop his cock.
“Never, if you don’t shut up and get busy, sweetheart.” I grabbed one of his hands and wrapped it around my breast, took the other and had him start rubbing my clit.
“Softer, babe. Softer,” I said. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”
He was turned on by it, I could tell: His erection had gotten harder, and his hands were overeager. He harrumphed, though. “I don’t get many complaints.”
I pulled my rump back far enough to leave just the tip of him in, then ground against him hard enough to make myself groan and started up a rhythm. His fingers faltered on my clit, and I put my own hand atop them to show him how to touch me.
“Not many women are as forward as I am,” I said, watching him through slit eyes.
I love writing sex. Even bad sex. It puts me in a good mood. :-)