Missing the moans

Her moan sounded like a cat. She also clawed my upper back like a cat. But she jiggled back and forth on the pillow that day like the prettiest girl I had ever know (which she was) who had cried in my arms the week before about how she loved me, whom I had told that we should ‘see other people’ after the summer, provoking her to cry. Was I being manipulative to this woman? Hadn’t I hurt her feelings? Yes and yes. But I did still love her. It’s just complicated.

And it made her want me more. Ever since she had stepped out of the shower, wearing that white towel, stepped in to my room, and lain next to me whispering “Hi Andrew” as she stroked my chest and we began kissing. I remember my index finger and middle finger working the edges of her clit. I recall her hand stroking my cock, but she never got me off that way. I recall her twitching, shuddering as my fingers moved in and out. I do also recall my tongue swishing around her pussy, and as I pulled back and a string of some gooey substance balanced between my tongue and her pussy lips before detaching. I do recall her pulling me up to kiss her for a long time after that, even though I had a thin coating of vaginal fluid on my mouth and I would never have made her kiss me after I, say, shot a load in her mouth.

And then, finally, the clawing on my back and her voice-cracking, meow-ish moans. She pulled her mouth up to my shoulder and bit it. All I saw was her blonde hair tousled over the pillow. All I picture now is her flushed face biting my shoulder, not too hard, as she squints ahead at her legs dangling in the air and my ass moving furiously in between them.

Then I came. And she flopped back down on the pillow. And I asked her if it was good. And she caught her breath for a second and answered “very.”

A month and a few fucks later, our sex life ended.