As she bent over the railing, her hands behind her back, him pummelling her harder and harder with each thrust, she thought of the very first time they had sex and how she managed to end up in such a position.
Their relationship was built on sex. The first night they went out ended with her writhing in his passionate embrace screaming for it deeper and deeper until she came and collapsed onto his bed. They slept intertwined within each other that night; Breathing in unison.
Since then, she came to expect sex with every encounter, and he obliged because he knew it made her happy. Until, it seemed he no longer wanted nor needed to make her happy. As soon as she assumed the role of "girlfriend" their sexual encounters became less and less frequent. They would only sleep together, like an old married couple. In the first few weeks of their relationship he would wake her up with the dick. She'd be in the middle of a dream and suddenly, like a snake in the grass, he would climb on top of her, nudging at the entrance to her secret garden with his fully erect serpent. Then they'd fuck, tumbling through sheets, sometimes on the bed, sometimes on the floor, until they were breathless, sweating and worn out, welcoming the break of dawn. She loved those moments: going to sleep with a huge grin on her face, knowing that her man wanted her.
But now she didn't feel wanted any more. She felt as if desiring him had become a burden. He didn't touch her sweet spot any more. And whenever she initiated or even mentioned sex, it ended in a huge argument about her using him and not being attune to his emotions. WTF? She felt like a lesbian, a bitch fucking another bitch. Because that's exactly how he was behaving; like a real bitch. What kind of man denies his woman sex? Isn't that what all men want? a woman who wants sex as much as they do? Did he know how many men would have given anything to be in his position? But that was the problem. When he first met her he knew she had an insatiable sexual appetite but he figured he could tame her with monogamy. In truth, her libido only grew stronger with the prospect of having sex any time and anywhere. She was a sex fiend and he soon came to realize that he really couldn't manage it. So every time she mentioned sex he would pick a fight with her, not knowing that while he slept beside her she cried herself to sleep, feeling as though she had done something wrong, something to make her undesirable.
As he bent her over the railing, watching the rain drizzle on the bumper to bumper traffic below, every one oblivious of them on that 4th floor balcony, he took out the handcuffs and clasped them behind her back. As they snapped shut, it snapped her out of the numbness she had fallen into with the monotony of his hard thrusts and the shock of the cold metal against her wrists sent a rush of adrenalin to her brain. Her nipples were now erect and her vagina oozed with excitement. He felt her insides expand and contract on his hard dick and began thrusting even harder. She needed to be punished. She deserved it. Looking over the railing, the rain blowing lightly across her face, she thought about the last time she felt this way; It was their 6 month-versary. She had bought lace lingerie, cooked a fabulous meal, open a bottle of Merlot, lit some candles, shaved and rubbed herself down with some body butter. There was no way he could resist her now. After they ate and drank half the bottle of wine she led him into the candle-lit bedroom and proceeded to undress him. He brushed her off at first but she just figured he was playing rough. He liked to get rough sometimes. She finally got his shirt off and then instructed him to take his pants off as she centred herself in the bed, legs spread apart. He didn't move. He just started at her staring at his pants. She crawled towards him and tugged at his belt. He pushed her off and started to put his shirt back on, mumbling something about sex and feelings but she couldn't hear a word he was saying. All she could feel was the red wine swishing around her head and the moisture between her legs evaporating. She kept her focus on the curved, throbbing imprint in his pants. He was hard, he wanted her but...then... why was he putting his clothes back on? why was he so angry? why was he leaving? She grabbed his shoulders and spun him around as he was about to leave the room. His eyes were firey red. There was a contemptful pain and anger burning within him that she had never seen before. Then she realised that she had never actually looked into his eyes before. Every time they had sex she was so consumed with her own pleasure that she had never thought about his. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was just using him for sex. She stepped away from him, allowing him to pass. Before he left the room he turned to her and said, "I thought you loved me," then he shut the door and left. She spent the rest of that night in a trance with only the company of the bottle of merlot, the candles and her vibrator. Then she cried herself to sleep. Not just because the night she had envisioned had fallen to pieces but because the relationship she thought she was in was a complete farce. They were obviously on two different wavelengths. And she felt guilty. She felt guilty for wanting sex so much, for not caring enough about him and his needs.
Bent over the railing, handcuffed, watching the cars creep through the rainy evening, she suddenly knew exactly how she had gotten to this position. She had put herself here. When she came over to apologise to him for being insensitive, to make amends, he had grabbed her and held her. He held her like the first time they had sex, and then he kissed her passionately. And stupidly, she thought that all was forgiven, that they were actually going to work things out. So she dropped to her knees, he pulled out his dick placed it in her mouth and she gave him the best head he ever had. And when he walked her over to the balcony and pushed her up against the railing she thought they were going to have make-up sex, kinky make-up sex and that excited her. He knew this excited her, sex always excited her. It wasn't him, he thought. It was always about the sex and it would always be about the sex. He spun her around and lifted her dress, ripping her thong off simultaneously.
He bent her over and penetrated her from behind. She could feel the aggression from their previous night coursing through the veins in his cock; hot and burning into her vagina. Then he fucked her. He fucked her with his ego. He handcuffed her arms behind her back and fucked her with his ego, just to prove that he was in charge. Then he came, pulled up his pants unlocked the cuffs and left her in the rain on the balcony; the rain masking the tears trickling down her face washing her dignity away. Before she left his apartment that night, she couldn't bring herself to say anything to him. She packed up her belongings and quietly headed towards the door. She could feel his hot breath behind her and she turned around, meeting his stare.
As she looked into his blood red eyes she felt nothing, how could she have ever thought that she was in love, with him. She turned around and left him in silence, finally realising that love is truly cock-eyed.
Their relationship was built on sex. The first night they went out ended with her writhing in his passionate embrace screaming for it deeper and deeper until she came and collapsed onto his bed. They slept intertwined within each other that night; Breathing in unison.
Since then, she came to expect sex with every encounter, and he obliged because he knew it made her happy. Until, it seemed he no longer wanted nor needed to make her happy. As soon as she assumed the role of "girlfriend" their sexual encounters became less and less frequent. They would only sleep together, like an old married couple. In the first few weeks of their relationship he would wake her up with the dick. She'd be in the middle of a dream and suddenly, like a snake in the grass, he would climb on top of her, nudging at the entrance to her secret garden with his fully erect serpent. Then they'd fuck, tumbling through sheets, sometimes on the bed, sometimes on the floor, until they were breathless, sweating and worn out, welcoming the break of dawn. She loved those moments: going to sleep with a huge grin on her face, knowing that her man wanted her.
But now she didn't feel wanted any more. She felt as if desiring him had become a burden. He didn't touch her sweet spot any more. And whenever she initiated or even mentioned sex, it ended in a huge argument about her using him and not being attune to his emotions. WTF? She felt like a lesbian, a bitch fucking another bitch. Because that's exactly how he was behaving; like a real bitch. What kind of man denies his woman sex? Isn't that what all men want? a woman who wants sex as much as they do? Did he know how many men would have given anything to be in his position? But that was the problem. When he first met her he knew she had an insatiable sexual appetite but he figured he could tame her with monogamy. In truth, her libido only grew stronger with the prospect of having sex any time and anywhere. She was a sex fiend and he soon came to realize that he really couldn't manage it. So every time she mentioned sex he would pick a fight with her, not knowing that while he slept beside her she cried herself to sleep, feeling as though she had done something wrong, something to make her undesirable.
As he bent her over the railing, watching the rain drizzle on the bumper to bumper traffic below, every one oblivious of them on that 4th floor balcony, he took out the handcuffs and clasped them behind her back. As they snapped shut, it snapped her out of the numbness she had fallen into with the monotony of his hard thrusts and the shock of the cold metal against her wrists sent a rush of adrenalin to her brain. Her nipples were now erect and her vagina oozed with excitement. He felt her insides expand and contract on his hard dick and began thrusting even harder. She needed to be punished. She deserved it. Looking over the railing, the rain blowing lightly across her face, she thought about the last time she felt this way; It was their 6 month-versary. She had bought lace lingerie, cooked a fabulous meal, open a bottle of Merlot, lit some candles, shaved and rubbed herself down with some body butter. There was no way he could resist her now. After they ate and drank half the bottle of wine she led him into the candle-lit bedroom and proceeded to undress him. He brushed her off at first but she just figured he was playing rough. He liked to get rough sometimes. She finally got his shirt off and then instructed him to take his pants off as she centred herself in the bed, legs spread apart. He didn't move. He just started at her staring at his pants. She crawled towards him and tugged at his belt. He pushed her off and started to put his shirt back on, mumbling something about sex and feelings but she couldn't hear a word he was saying. All she could feel was the red wine swishing around her head and the moisture between her legs evaporating. She kept her focus on the curved, throbbing imprint in his pants. He was hard, he wanted her but...then... why was he putting his clothes back on? why was he so angry? why was he leaving? She grabbed his shoulders and spun him around as he was about to leave the room. His eyes were firey red. There was a contemptful pain and anger burning within him that she had never seen before. Then she realised that she had never actually looked into his eyes before. Every time they had sex she was so consumed with her own pleasure that she had never thought about his. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was just using him for sex. She stepped away from him, allowing him to pass. Before he left the room he turned to her and said, "I thought you loved me," then he shut the door and left. She spent the rest of that night in a trance with only the company of the bottle of merlot, the candles and her vibrator. Then she cried herself to sleep. Not just because the night she had envisioned had fallen to pieces but because the relationship she thought she was in was a complete farce. They were obviously on two different wavelengths. And she felt guilty. She felt guilty for wanting sex so much, for not caring enough about him and his needs.
Bent over the railing, handcuffed, watching the cars creep through the rainy evening, she suddenly knew exactly how she had gotten to this position. She had put herself here. When she came over to apologise to him for being insensitive, to make amends, he had grabbed her and held her. He held her like the first time they had sex, and then he kissed her passionately. And stupidly, she thought that all was forgiven, that they were actually going to work things out. So she dropped to her knees, he pulled out his dick placed it in her mouth and she gave him the best head he ever had. And when he walked her over to the balcony and pushed her up against the railing she thought they were going to have make-up sex, kinky make-up sex and that excited her. He knew this excited her, sex always excited her. It wasn't him, he thought. It was always about the sex and it would always be about the sex. He spun her around and lifted her dress, ripping her thong off simultaneously.
He bent her over and penetrated her from behind. She could feel the aggression from their previous night coursing through the veins in his cock; hot and burning into her vagina. Then he fucked her. He fucked her with his ego. He handcuffed her arms behind her back and fucked her with his ego, just to prove that he was in charge. Then he came, pulled up his pants unlocked the cuffs and left her in the rain on the balcony; the rain masking the tears trickling down her face washing her dignity away. Before she left his apartment that night, she couldn't bring herself to say anything to him. She packed up her belongings and quietly headed towards the door. She could feel his hot breath behind her and she turned around, meeting his stare.
As she looked into his blood red eyes she felt nothing, how could she have ever thought that she was in love, with him. She turned around and left him in silence, finally realising that love is truly cock-eyed.
