Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Down there.
I always let him, of course, but sometimes I make demands of my own.
Sometimes I’ll beg him to give me his dick so I can kiss and suck on something too. So we’ve devised a strategy for that. Or rather he has. When he’s eating me out, if I get hungry too, he’ll spin me upside down and put me on top. With my mouth on his dick and his mouth on my pussy, a sixty-nine. That I’d always read about but never experienced.
It’s intense.
So freaking intense.
But not more intense than when he refuses to indulge me.
When sometimes he absolutely refuses to give me his big bad Bandit dick while eating me out. Those times he will wring a crazy orgasm out of me and then when I’m still reeling, still loose and gasping, he’ll emerge from between my thighs, mouth dark and wet and dripping from my juices, straddle my chest. He will either fuck my tits or just stick his dick in my gasping mouth.
During those times, he goes crazy.
He fucks my mouth like he fucks my pussy, thrusting and pounding and plowing in my mouth, his balls hitting me on the chin, his scent choking me in the best of ways. He grabs the headboard and rolls his hips in a rhythm that reminds me of a dancer or the athlete that he so is.
And when I’m all dripping with my own saliva and tears of joy, both in my eyes and my once-again horny pussy, he comes with a pained groan. Sometimes down my throat, sometimes on the tip of my tongue. Other times on my face, my neck, my tits.
Or his favorite, my hair.
Whenever he comes in my hair, he makes sure to clean me up. He takes me to my shower, lovingly washes my hair and the rest of my tired and sated body. Well, not sated because all that fucking my mouth gets me going all over again so we fuck in the shower too.
And then, then we go to sleep.
Needless to say, I love movie nights.
Anyway, when I wake up in the morning, I always find my bed empty. Which I understand of course. He can’t be caught sleeping in my bed in the morning.
But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.
Or the fact that he won’t just stay with me in my bedroom the first time around, when he brings me back from the ride. Why do I have to text him, tell him I miss him — without him ever telling me the same — before he comes for me again.
It’s because this is just sex for him.
He’s only using me. This isn’t something permanent and I belong with someone else.
And even though I feel differently, I’m not allowed to talk about it.
Because I’m his good girl. And because if I do, he’ll leave.
But I do write about it in my diary.
Which, now if I read it, I’d call the lovesick diaries.
I write how even though he’s gone in the mornings, he doesn’t really leave me. He’s still there, the texture of his skin lingering on my fingers from all the touching I do; the shape of his muscled shoulders is imprinted on my thighs from all the times he goes down on me; the taste of his lips flutters on mine from all the kissing we do.
Not to mention, his dick in my pussy.
So deep and high in it that I feel him in my tummy.
And I touch my tummy every chance I get.
I also check my phone every chance I get.
Because for a guy who hates texting, he likes to text me a lot. Throughout the day in fact. And you’d think that they’re all dirty texts but they’re not. Some of them are just random texts about what he’s doing at the time. Like reading a file for his brother that makes him want to kill himself. Or a photo of his brother looking like a million-dollar man at a very boring meeting.
And other times he likes to give me commands and yes, they are dirty.
Like eating my lunch without my panties. Or asking me to go up into my room while I’m cooking dinner for everyone and make myself come. And then send him proof of my wet fingers. And then sometimes he asks for photos of my braid, my pink dresses, my pink-painted toes.
And then he’ll call me randomly just to hear my voice.
Or just to hear me breathe even.
I save all his texts, all the pictures that I ask him to send in exchange for all the pictures he asks. A photo of his big strong hands, the buttons of the shirt that he’s wearing, what he’s eating for lunch, his hair. I even make him wear a tie one day and have him send me a picture of that, and he makes me send him a picture of my bare tits in exchange for putting him through the torture.