I'll Call You Sometime: The Sequel

“So that was a big blow off, you know,” I said to Daniel. “The I’ll call you sometime, and I’ll see you online.”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that! You didn’t think I was blowing you off?!”

“Well.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that at all. I just usually see people online. I think things are going great with us.”

***

When Daniel came over last night I insisted that we practice the dance moves I learned on Friday: forward, back ROCK step. Then we adjourned to my bed and started fooling around. “You’re not wearing panties!” he gasped, lifting up my skirt.

“You didn’t notice? You had your hands all over my ass!” I was astounded.

“It didn’t occur to me.” He looked at my pussy. “Wow. Lily.”

“I thought you might like it.” He slid his mouth between my thighs. “Oh….” I said.

******

He’s got a lot of stamina. I climbed on top of him and came really quickly. We spent the next half hour with him inside me, urging me to ride his cock. "I love seeing you bounce up and down," Daniel said. He smacked my ass (this is becoming a pattern) and nuzzled my tits: “You have perfect tits,” he murmured.

“Thanks. But I can’t take any credit for them." I mean, it's not like I can improve them by exercise, like biceps. I gasped as his mouth clamped onto a nipple. "Yeah. Suck them….”

“Here…” He sat on the edge of my mattress and I straddled him, locking my ankles around his back. “You like it deep, baby? Can you feel that?” he asked. I love that lazy, necessary verbal urging, all that Come on/Yeah, baby/Do that again/You want to take this?/Give it to me/Harder. All those intimate, foolish phrases. I love it.

When at last he came I curled up with my head on his chest and we talked. About how he doesn’t want children, and his ex-girlfriends, and all sorts of things that only reinforce that we really don’t want any of the same things. But by the same token, everything about him is so appealing and sweet and sexy. And he likes me too, that’s the strangest part of all. It grew later but at last I said, “Please fuck me again,” and I lay on my stomach, cause I wanted him to fuck me from behind, doggy style.

“You like this?” he panted as, once again, his cock pushed right through me. “You’re so tight!”

“I want to be a whore for you,” I whispered, my hair stuck in my face. I tried to turn around and look at him, energetically pumping away at my pussy.

He got that: “Good slut,” he grunted obligingly. “Filthy bitch.”

It’s hard to be a submissive feminist, I must say. But when I’m told that I’m a filthy bitch and a dirty whore, I’m so excited I can do nothing but whimper, “More.”

Now it’s morning and I’m left in a kind of daze of good feeling. God, I wish I could fuck him every single day. And then spend hours just mooning at him and stroking his chest and tasting his mouth. Unfortunately, no good can come from this excess of hormonal cheer. I may even feel muzzy enough to send him a complimentary email