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Your Girl

(Part 1 from 1)

I go into work today. At first, it seems like an ordinary day; nothing extraordinary happens. I arrive, I sit down, I file, I copy, I fax, I make phone calls, I talk with my superiors. It is another boring Thursday. Until I get a call from my boss. I enter her office. I sit down. She tells me that I have been promoted. I am happy. I shake her hand and smile, and I say things like “You won’t regret this” and “Thank you for this opportunity.” I am happy.

I return to my desk and I call your girl. She is also at work. I don’t tell her right away; I ask her how her day has been. I ask her how she’s feeling. I ask her what her plans are after work. You don’t ask her these things when you call.

Finally I break the news to her. She is happy for me. Since I know she was only going to waste time at your place after work, I ask her if she wants to celebrate with me. Excitedly, she says yes. I hang up. This is a great day.

After work I go home and change. I put on simple, casual clothes—I don’t dress like rap stars, I don’t wear expensive suits. I don’t dress like you. I dress simple, to draw attention away from myself. Understated. She likes that, but you don’t know that.

I don’t know why she is still with you, but I don’t ask her why she is still with you. She is a grown woman; I assume she has her reasons. But since she is (still with you), I cannot pick her up from your house, even though you only live five minutes from her job. She blows you off (she calls you and lies to you, telling you that she’s not feeling well) and goes home. She dresses and gets ready.

I arrive at her place at 6:00, exactly when I said I would. She is not ready, but I understand. I do not bitch; I am not like you. She is ready at 6:13. We walk out to the car and I open the door for her—not because she can’t do it herself, and not because I like to show off, but because I want her to feel special. Even on a night when I’m supposed to feel special.

In the car we talk about all kinds of things. She is excited about my promotion, but I downplay it. I am not the center of the world. I ask her about her job a little more, and she talks excitedly about it. I listen. It’s not hard; I just remove all other thoughts from my head and shut up while she’s talking. You are notorious for not listening.

We arrive at the restaurant and take our seats. I order wine and we continue to chat. She tells me things that she tells no one else, and I listen. Even though I don’t care to hear some of the things, I still listen. When it’s my turn to talk, I talk, and she listens. It’s easy to talk to her. She is interesting. She is fun. I’d like to be with a woman like this. I’d like to be with her. But she’s with you.

The food comes and we eat. We talk in between bites. I ask her how her food is and she tells me. People walk by us and smile, especially older people. I smile back.

After dinner is over I walk your girl to the car and we head to the theater. I hold the door to the lobby open and hand the usher our tickets. We watch the play. It is interesting, it entertains us. Every so often I laugh, she laughs, we both laugh. I whisper remarks in her ear, and she does the same. She’s having a good time, your girl and I are.

When the play is over I ask her if she wants to get a drink. She declines. I ask her if she’d like to come back to my place. She accepts. I thought that she would, but I assume nothing.

I get on the highway and head back to my place. We still converse; music is playing in the background. The night is drawing to a close, and things are slowing down—but only a little bit. She is smiling. That makes me happy.

We get to my place and I open the car door for her. Helping her out of the car, we go inside. I ask her again if she’d like a drink, just to be friendly. Again, she declines, but thanks me for offering. I put on some soft music and join her on my sofa. We talk in whispers, letting the mood wash over us. She is incredible.

Soon she snuggles up to me and kisses my neck. I am aroused. I return the kiss and we make out passionately for several minutes. I run my fingers over her body, but I don’t grope her uncontrollably. Not yet, anyway—there’s a time and place. We don’t need to rush. I know which spots excite her more than others; I am quite familiar with her body, in fact, having taken the trip quite a few times.

Pretty soon she is exceptionally excited. Even though kissing is fine, she is ready for more. She doesn’t tell me this—I know it, I feel it. I deftly run a finger under her skirt and up her inner thigh. She likes this. She grabs my upper arm encouragingly. I put my finger on her sex and stroke it delicately. A hot breath blows across my face as she exhales slowly. She is ready. I meet her gaze and open my mouth slightly as I stroke her. She knows what that means.

“Tonight is all about you,” she says lowly, her eyes closed.

I don’t care. I am not selfish. On some level, she knows that I don’t care—she knows that I receive pleasure from pleasuring her. I get on my knees and spread her legs slightly. Running two hands up her thighs this time, I find her undergarment and pull them down and off. Simultaneously, she hikes up her skirt until it is at her waist. She is breathing heavily, but not as heavily as she will be in a minute. 

I begin. Her eyes close. She loves it when I go down on her. She can’t even remember the last time you bothered to go down on her. I lick her lips, both her inner and outer lips. I lick and suck on her clit. I stick my tongue and my fingers inside of her and lick/rub her there. I reach up and help her remove her top so that I can tug and suck on her nipples. I mix up the above actions in varying degrees, feeling her out, already knowing what makes her go nuts, and finding new ways to push her to the edge. I am not finished until she wants me to be finished. Whether it takes five minutes or thirty-five minutes, I will pleasure her for as long as it takes.

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Finally she has had enough—I feel her pushing down on my head. I love it when she does that.

”Stand up,” she says, and I do.

She takes one of the pillows from my sofa and kneels on it. Now wearing only her thigh-highs and boots, I realize I am overdressed. I remove my shirt while she unfastens the buckle on my belts. Half a minute later my underwear and pants have been pulled down.

Your girl begins. She licks my organ, gently running her tongue up and down it before putting a great portion of it in her mouth. I am very excited. Sometimes she starts slowly, other times she practically inhales me. Today she is going fast, and I love it. I grab a handful of her impeccably styled hair and bunch it up in my fist. She’s not crazy about me doing that (or you either, for that matter) but she tells me she wants me to do it. Because I told her I like it.

Holding her hair off to the side and out of her way, I keep my eyes affixed to hers as she pleasures me. She takes her time, gives me whatever I want. You can only wish that she would do that for you. She is quite good, and soon I feel the need to stop her. I don’t want to come in her mouth. Not tonight, anyway. If I wanted to, I could have come in her mouth, and she would have swallowed, too. Or I could have come on her face, if I wanted. She doesn’t mind; she likes it. Because I like it.

I put my hands in her armpits and help her to her feet. We embrace and kiss for several minutes.

“I need you inside me,” she says, stealing the words from my mind. 

I lower her down on the sofa and enter her, slowly and softly. She utters a low moan and clenches me as I slide in. Your girl feels wonderful. Together, we begin.

The sex is exceptional and satisfying. Leaning over her, I am able to hold her gaze as I penetrate her repeatedly, intensifying the experience greatly. Her face, her eyes, her moans, her smell—all of these things make the actual act that much more gratifying. 

Time passes. Your girl is approaching orgasm, as am I. I feel her wetness increase and I know it won’t be long—unless I hold back. I focus. She is screaming in my ear, scratching my back, but still I hold back. When she is done, I kiss her hungrily and withdraw. She tells me how good it is, how good I am. I kiss her again.

I pull your girl towards me and lie down. I already know what she wants. She wants to be in control for awhile. Your girl straddles me and lowers herself onto me. She tosses her head back and moans—along with me this time—and begins to ride me elatedly. She is incredible. After only moments I am able to capture her gaze again. We take turns rubbing her clit. She is incredible.

Time passes. I am approaching orgasm, again, and I tell her so. She tells me to wait, as she is also close. I focus and hold back. Finally she begins to scream and I grab her waist. I can’t hold back any longer.

We come together. Your girl and me.

We both rest for a little while. We kiss, we fondle, we lick. Eventually, the urge strikes us again, and we have sex a second time. It is incredible; she is incredible.

We rest again. After a minute we get up and go to the bedroom. I hold your girl in my arms, and she feels wanted. She is happy. She pulls me closer to her, and we fall asleep.

The next morning we wake. Fully invigorated, we have sex again in the light of dawn. We are incredible.

Your girl showers and dresses while I make her breakfast. Nothing fancy, just a few things I keep in the kitchen for just such an occasion. She comes into the dining room and gives me the tenderest of kisses. I beg her to eat while I go wash and get dressed.
After I exit the bedroom, your girl goes into the bathroom and brushes her teeth with the toothbrush I keep there for her. She comes out and kisses me, and I drive her home so that she can change clothes for work. Before she exits my car, she leans over and kisses me one more time. I am sad to see her go, but she is not my woman; she is yours. I don’t know why she is still with you, but I don’t ask her why she is still with you.

“Bye sweetie, I’ll call you later,” I say.

“I’ll be waiting,” she replies.

I wait for her to get inside her house, then I pull off. She is incredible, your girl is. Absolutely incredible.

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