That Thing She Does

I don’t know why she still does this to me.

Partners come and go. They always have and always will. Some of them leave a lasting impression, whether it’s something as simple as introducing you to your favourite position to be fucked in, to the big stuff, like helping your heart heal after some careless fucker broke it. They teach you, and help you grow.

Some people wander into your life for no other reason than to help you recognise the next good thing when it comes along. We all know how relieved we are when we realise that those people weren’t here to stay.

And others…they leave your life and, when you bump into them a few years down the line, and they call your name in the street, you find yourself wondering, ‘who the fuck is this?’. No sooner do they go than they’re forgotten.

And then there are those people who stay firmly planted in your mind after they’ve gone. Even if they only stay a short while, they leave something behind, and it grows inside you like an aggressive weed. They fill your mind, occupy your waking and sleeping thoughts. You start to fuck things up, because you can’t concentrate on your day to day life. They consume you, even if you know neither of you ever truly fell in love with the other.

She’s one of those.

I’ve not seen her for a year, maybe two, but ever since she walked out my door without as much as a glance over her shoulder, she’s been in my head. Under my skin. The driving force behind all the things I do and don’t do.

When I think of her, the first thing that happens is a tightening in my chest. I’m feeling it right now, constricting me, stealing my air even as I suck it into my increasingly desperate lungs.

My leg starts to jiggle. I drum my fingers on the arm of my chair. The air around me feels thicker and thinner at the same time, and warmer. So warm it burns when I breathe it in. So dense it rattles from my throat when I force it back out again.

Next, I lose focus. I don’t know if it’s because my eyelids grow heavy and start to close, or just that I’m no longer really looking at anything, because I’m starting to retreat into my own mind. Memories of lips against lips. Pale thighs between dark ones. Hair pulling. Scratching, biting, bed springs screeching. Echoes of sharp slaps, erotic moans, and sated sighs.

If I force myself to take a slow, deep breath, I can almost convince myself I can smell her hair.

When I’m with other people, say at work, this is the part where it gets awkward. They can see my skin reddening, and the sweat that beads on my forehead. I wipe my palms on my trousers, stare straight ahead and tell them I’m fine when they ask if I’m sure I’m feeling alright.

They suggest I go for some air, or to get a drink, but I brush it off, telling them that all I need is a moment of quiet. They’re right, of course. Air and a cold drink would probably help, but it’s impossible to walk across a room or down a corridor of open doors when your cock is making a tent out of your clothes.

Because that’s what comes next, whenever I think of her.

At first, it’s just a twitching. My brain sends the suggestion despite me, and I try so hard to make my dick ignore it. But then I think of my bottom lip brushing over her nipple, or her long legs wrapping around my waist, or her tongue lapping circles around my aching tip, and then, my erection practically nails me to the underside of my desk.

When I’m alone I try to fight it. I stoically ignore the urge to thrust, to grind, to pull my pants down and fuck my fist while remembering that time she was lying on the table, and I stood between her knees so I could watch my cock plunge in and out of her soaking wet cunt.

God, the sounds that made! Squelching, slapping, the odd sucking plop when I fucked too hard and slipped out of her. The way she pleaded for me to stop rubbing the head of my cock on her clit and just fuck her until her eyes rolled back into her head and she forgot her own name.

I try not to stroke my cock while I think of how her cunt squeezed me so hard when she came it would hurt, or how she would manoeuvre herself onto her knees with her ass in the air, hands spreading her cheeks, mouth groaning out the command to fuck her there.

God, I really try.

But I fail.

Just like right now.

My cock throbs, trying to squeeze out just one last splodge of come. The rest of it – rivers of it – covers the lower half of my shirt, but this one last blob oozes from the tip and spills over the side. I watch it slowly slither down my shaft, coming to a rest on a bed of pubic hair, just as my muscles twitch one last time.

I stare at the mess that I… that she… that we have made of me, and I sigh.

No, I don’t know why she still does this to me. But she does.

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Week 156

2 thoughts on “That Thing She Does

  1. For a long time, I had a memory/person like that. He’s been exorcised from my brain by much better kinky fuckery but he was there. I’d love to see what they were like before she was an erotic memory.

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