The Good Girl

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I lifted my head off the mattress just enough to glance at the bedside clock. 11:25. Shit. He was keeping a tight grip on my hips as he stabbed into me, my ass angled rudely high, my face scrubbing against the sheets, my arms stretched above my head, elbows slightly bent to absorb the shock. I pressed my palms against the headboard to push back against his relentless pistoning that was threatening to grind me along the mattress until my head thumped against the wood.

I wiggled my hips at my husband, trying to nudge his arousal forward. He had already jabbed my cervix three times, two of them hard enough to really hurt. After twenty minutes of this pounding, most of it in this position, I knew I’d be hurting in the morning. My demanding three-year-old climbing into our bed at six a.m. wasn’t going to allow for much sleep. Again.

To make matters worse I was beginning to dry out, and Josh wasn’t slowing down. I was already feeling abraded. And that damn thumb of his was prodding at my asshole again. That seemed to be his new thing of late. It was time to finish.

“Baby,” I cooed to him, “lie on top of me, baby. Make me come.”

Josh grunted and, thankfully, mercifully, his fat cock dragged back and felt as if it was pulling me inside-out. I couldn’t take much more of this. I rolled on my back, spread my legs wide and welcoming and smiled up at him, my arms outstretched. “C’mere, baby.”

He loomed over me and quickly rediscovered my vagina. Two short strokes later and he was back into his rhythm with full-length tip to root plunges. I closed my eyes and hung on. His hairy, muscled body pressed heavily on my breasts and belly, making it difficult for me to move — I dug my heels into the mattress as best I could, trying to find some leverage to begin my matching hip thrusts. Those always seemed to work.

“Oh, baby, that’s so good,” I murmured into his ear. I began to dig my fingers into his shoulder blades on every driving inward thrust. “Make me come, baby. Make me come.” Josh was grunting from his effort. His plum-sized testicles thumped against my butt on every instroke. The friction was getting worse. It was time to finish him.

I sped up my breathing, then I began to moan, at first softly, then progressively louder, canlı bahis and my fingernails clawed in deeper and deeper. Move the hips, I reminded myself, keep moving the hips. “Oh baby baby so good baby baby,” I groaned. He was breathing harder himself. That was a good sign.

I could always read my husband, but in truth he wasn’t a very difficult book. He was a patterned lover. Predictable in his aggressive, athletic movements, and slow in his arousal. But now I knew he was just about ready to explode.

“Oh baby baby so good.” I began to gasp. It was time. “Oh baby oh baby oh fuck oh fuck me fuck me.” I undulated my hips as fast and furiously as I could, whipping him onward, now gouging my fingernails in and not backing off. When I felt that telltale surge of rigidity, I just drove him over the finish line with a high-pitched squeal and as much clenching of my vaginal muscles as I could manage.

It worked. It always worked. Josh exhaled a throaty groan and jammed his ramrod into me and held himself there, his body stiff and paralyzed. He had nicked my cervix yet one more time, but I just ignored it and kept doing my hip thrusts. I didn’t want any retreat at this point. Up, up, up and then I felt the first big jerking jump of his penis. He exhaled a wet, wheezy moan. Up, up, up. I knew I could milk him like this, knew how much he loved to have me keep buffing myself up and down his shaft while he was frozen motionless and spurting.

And he was definitely spurting. “Come for me, baby, come for me,” I urged his ear. He pulsed again and again. “Oh that’s a good boy, oh so good, squirt it in me, baby.” I worked his throbbing erection with my sheath. I was slippery again, bathed with his white balm. And when he could again move his hips, I stopped my own and let him take over, stroking himself through his creamy release. I wanted him to empty those big balls of his. I was going to be too sore to repeat all this tomorrow night.

And finally he was done. I always looked forward to this time, with its gentle kisses and whispered sweet nothings and the languid, sloppy connection of relaxed bodies. He wasn’t pounding me now. He was thanking me. He twitched inside me. I squeezed back.

It was funny, I thought to myself, how much control I had bahis siteleri over his orgasm. And how little control he had over mine.

After the kisses and whispers, after his spent erection had shrunk back to merely meaty flesh, after he had slipped away to his side of our king-size bed, I waited patiently for his soft snores before I again spread my legs and began to touch myself.

I was raised to be a Good Girl, lectured from birth to keep my hands away from Down There, to resist temptations, to have control. To walk down the aisle in a white gown and then, on my wedding night, to give my virginity to my husband. No one prepared me for the shock of learning that my best friend in high school, my freshman college roommate, had gotten herself pregnant during the summer after that first year.

The following Fall I found myself with a new roommate, who startled me with her ritual of nightly masturbation. I would feign sleep and watch her in the dark. She was always so quiet, so restrained, even when I could hear the liquid sounds coming from between her legs and the suppressed quickening breaths rushing through her nostrils. At the end, when her knees would rise to form twin islands of bedsheet, her breathing would halt for a few curiously delicious seconds as her head arched back into the pillow, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Even when sweet Barry patiently seduced me that winter, I held onto the essence of my virtue. Though his mouth would nuzzle my hard brown nipples, from one to the other and back again, and his fingers would separate my slick pink petals and tease life into my clitoris and slip delicately into my vagina, I never gave him my pleasure, my soul.

And even when his persistence finally found his nakedness pressed against mine, and his horny hardness rubbed forever up and down my slit to spread me wide and wet, I would only allow him to spurt his sticky white lava across my belly. I was a Good Girl when I protested his gentle exploratory nudges into my secret folds. We would argue, he would plead, I would resist. I never let him hold onto those temporary territorial advances into my intimate inner place.

We were doomed, he and I, as he grew tired of the persuasion and I grew tired of the struggle, and bahis şirketleri when we parted ways I knew I was right. I had recaptured my lost territory. And then I met Josh.

Josh was handsome and fun and friendly. He swept me off my rebounding feet, both figuratively and literally. The four months of persistent grinding forward march that was Barry was equaled in a two-week blitz that was Josh. But his frightening erection wasn’t content to languish on my belly. Before I could explain I was a Good Girl, he was inside me, painfully stuck halfway and shuddering his seed. Only then did I surrender the rest of my insides, his path made slippery by the very stuff that produced Jason, one dress, one aisle, and nine months later.

The Good Girl became the Good Wife. “Keep him satisfied, and he won’t wander,” my mother had whispered to me. I did the best I could do. I gave him my body throughout my pregnancy, up until the last two months when I feared that his length would damage the baby. Almost four long, exhausting months with only my clumsy hands and inexperienced mouth, then on to a normal married life, this time blessedly protected by the Pill.

No one told me it would be like this, though. Not my mother, not my friends. My son and my husband were both insatiable, each in his own way. The Good Wife and the Good Mother were always busy.

And now, as my solitary right forefinger traced slow figure eights on my clitoral shaft, I was careful to stay away from the electric sensitivity of the exposed tip. It was a languid rise I sought, for I rejoiced in the journey, not solely in the arrival. My finger dipped periodically into the oozing reservoir below to retrieve its soothing treasure. I was still sore.

But this night, the same as countless other nights, the essence I spread across my plump lips and around my increasingly quivering clit did not remind me of my sleeping husband, nor did it remind me of Barry and what he would leave on my belly. Rather, it evoked memories of that college roommate and her private pleasure.

My finger was joined by a second, then a third, and with their slippery quickening pressure the controlled figure eights became crude zeroes, then frantic sloppy diagonals that shouldered aside my fat lips to focus on the proudly upthrust bud that was my core. And when my orgasm burst forth and captured me, only then did I allow myself to remember that penis pulsing its white streams inside me, inside the Good Girl who wasn’t me.

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