Why am I thinking about fucking her now? Was it the one photo I saw with the swinging breasts, the curved hips and the smile that knew things I didn’t yet know? Maybe it’s simply that nostalgia feels safer than reality, and maybe it’s that she let in parts of myself that have only grown more vibrant since that afternoon.
But on my bed, with her head back and her breasts heaving, we fucked as we screamed and moaned. She stuck one thumb into her mouth after calling me Daddy and it felt more wrong, more horrible, and oh so much hotter than anything I had ever done before. She cried as I fucked her, one hand on her throat, and we inched closer to falling off the bed without caring at all. Clenching around me, her cunt was perfection if I had been able to stop and notice, and her cries of pleasure and want mimicked my own for the first time in my life.
I don’t remember most of the details, like what her kiss tasted like or even how smooth the skin was around her sex. I don’t remember the posters on my walls or even the sheets on my bed. And I can’t recall what we did before or after that hour of sex.
But I’ll never forget her words, and I’ll never forget her glorious neck as she let her head fall over the side of the bed while begging me to fuck her harder. Her throat glistened with sweat and saliva, and her breasts shook with each thrust.
That perfect chin begged for my mouth and I have no words at all for her lips.