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Nearly a hour after he first entered me things showed no signs of slowing.
I love it and find it exhausting, these marathon beginnings to our meetings. In the midst of twists and turns and position changes and orgasms, I could no more stop than I could turn my skin inside out, though sometimes that’s how it feels as he pumps into me slow and fast and every speed in between.
I somehow wound up with my knees barely perched on the edge of the bed while he stood behind me. Could anything have been more natural, more expected, more necessary at that moment than for me to beg him to take my ass?
I did, and he did, but that pleasure after so much other pleasure quickly became too much. My knees slid off the bed. With tiptoes on the floor and only fingertips propping me up, we must have given off the illusion that he was supporting me primarily by means of his cock.
And then he pulled me upright, hands cupped under my breasts. Chance had put us at that moment in direct line of a mirror where our images blurred in the dim light. “Look in the mirror,” he said in my ear with his voice no higher than a growl. I didn’t or couldn’t look, loath to see the grimace from coming, the sweaty hair, the round tummy.
He gently (more gently than usual) grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled so my chin tilted up. “Look in the mirror,” he demanded. “Look at the pretty girl getting fucked.”
I had no choice but to look, and for just a brief moment I caught a glimpse of her too.



