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“I need you to fuck my ass.”
“As you wish,” he said, and he guided me into a new position.
On my knees, I leaned against the couch and presented him with my bottom. He poured over us a precious half-ounce of our co-owned lube.
“Slow, go slow,” I moaned. He went perfectly slowly, at least until I pushed back against him, the signal that all systems were a go for anything, anything at all.
He moves so well. How did he learn, I wondered. Did he go to school for sex? If so, he’d have a post-graduate degree in fucking. Did he have a coach, someone who coolly looked over his shoulder, critiquing his performance until it was perfect?
Or has he simply spent the past 30-plus years in careful study of what his partners like?
I reaped the benefits of his knowledge as I bent over the couch. I could do nothing but come and come and come some more.
My high-school friend and I used to say that a certain cute boy made us “wet to the knees.” We had only the very vaguest idea of what that meant. I understand it now, finally, twenty-odd years later. I understood it particularly well bent over my couch and gushing down my legs as he slid so smoothly into and out of my bottom.
Eventually my legs collapsed and my weak arms dropped off the couch. I ended up kneeling on the floor like someone praying, which seemed about right considering that I couldn’t stop murmuring “OhGodohGodohGod.”
He kept on fucking me right through the gushing, through the position change, through the praying.
Come to think of it, maybe I ought to consider kneeling in prayer one of these days. Maybe I should start thanking God that this man wandered into my life.
Rupert
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