He knew me well, I admit. His tongue knew just where to find my clit, making me moan and grind against him. He would slip two fingers into me, moving them slowly in and out at first, and then faster. I couldn’t help moaning around his cock, sucking and stroking him eagerly, hearing the wet, sloppy noises my pussy made with his fingers slipping in and out.

We would always do this until I came. It usually didn’t take me too long, since I, too, had been anticipating this all day. My pussy was usually already sopping the minute he walked in the door. I refused to masturbate on Fridays, even with my beloved shower massage, saving the intensity of my orgasm for his sweet, lapping tongue. It always made me shiver and shudder and spread my legs wider as I wiggled against him. He usually grabbed my hips to keep me steady as I came.

I was one of those women whose orgasms came quietly-they kind of snuck up on me, and my response was always more of a sigh than a scream.

“Oh John, yes,” I moaned, feeling it begin, waves of pleasure overtaking me.

“Ohhh.”

After my orgasm, he would roll me off of him, and pull me up to kiss me. I loved to taste my pussy in his mouth, the smell of it between us. Sometimes he would press

me to my back, and enter me that way. I loved him on me, the weight and thrust and shudder of him.

More often, though, he wanted me sitting on him so he could look up and watch me ride him. The look of lust in his eyes turned me to liquid every time, melting my already wet pussy into his flesh as I ground my pelvis against his. I loved his fingers playing over my clit, strumming it, making me move faster on him.

That Friday, though, I did something that surprised him, I think. Remembering what he had said about wanting anal sex, I decided to turn things around a little bit.