A rough sketch before I hop in the shower. Sorry so quiet here!

He had the thinnest upper lip. So thin he smiled closed mouth because he thought a full smile made him look sinister. I just thought he looked serious.

It wasn’t his mouth I noticed first though. No, that came later when he was stationed like a sentinel between my thighs.

What I noticed was his hands.

Long fingers and huge palms, like baseball mitts. He was holding a coffee cup when I met him, his hand engulfing the Venti size. His hands held my hips, gripped my ass perfectly the first time we made love. No, the first time he fucked me. Those hands left bruises I touched every time I masturbated.

I fancied myself in love with him for a while, but I just loved the way he could twist me up. He could certainly talk me into anything. Things that embarrassed me, but I wanted to please him. I’d do anything to get that buzz he gives me.

He wasn’t capable of love I quickly found. Not love how I understood it. He played his love out every night other ways. He’d love me on his bed, on the kitchen table, on the couch, in the car…

His love never felt more right than in those moments.


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