SLEEPING WITH BEN
When Ben came into the hotel room in Plymouth, I was laying on the bed with my clothes on. We were both grateful to be alone together somewhere other than the Branstable Library, and glad we had a couple dsys to ourselves to not rush through being together. Ben climbed on top of me, and we began slowly tongue-kissing, opening our mouth every couple of minutes to exchange what was on our minds.
> I hate your wife so much.
> I hate her too.
> I'm going to hurt her for hurting you all these years.
> What are you going to do to her?
> What do you want me to do to her?
> It's sexier when you say it, Michelle.
> I'm going to get her in a 69 and bite her between her legs.
> But she can bite you, too, if you do that.
> She better not try that, Ben.
> Why not, Michelle? What will you do?
> I'll dig my nails a into her pussy, and twist and gouge her.
> When you were fighting her, were you turned on?
> Yes, I was.
> Are you and her gonna fight again.
> Yes, I hope we do.
Ben and I have slid each others' clothes off, and we are waiting for him to get hard enough to penetrate me. It's 1996, and Viagra costs over $20 per pill and isn't covered by insurance yet (at least not by teachers' insurance plans in Massachusetts), so you don't take the pill unless you're 100% sure that fucking is going to occur. Otherwise, you're stuck with an erection and no where to stick it.
I'm not at all offended that Ben needs help getting hard for me. Living with that shrew Karen would emasculate any man.
Plus, when he finally does get hard, it's more than worth it. He gets inside of me and pumps his hips just right, not too fast and not too slow, with just the right amount of violence. We cum together, and he stays hard and stays inside of me. The sensation is fulfilling in every way. We lose track of time, and resume out tongue kissing pillow talk.
> Is your wife jealous of me.
> Yes. Horribly.
> Why so?
> She can never get your dark hair, your dark skin. She can never tan how you Italian women do.
> What about her bush? Hers is so fine.
> Yes, yes. She hates that. She can never grow a thick bush.
> She's not aging gracefully.
> No, she's not. She knows it, and hates it.
> Wanting to see her grow up and become middle-aged is the only thing that keeps me from killing her.
> Are you jealous of her?
> Yes, but I don't like talking about it.
> But it turns me on to hear it.
> Fine. I hate how her blonde hair is an automatic turn on to guys. How it makes them look right past her bitch personality.
> I saw parts of her hair on the foyer floor. Did you do that to her?
> Yes, we were catfighting in the foyer, standing up. Does that turn you on?
> Yes, I wish I was there watching.
> Do you catfight a lot?
I think back to the Boston College summer in New Hampshire, with the 4 boys and the 8 catty girls, and the girl who pushed water in my face in the chicken fight. I embellish the story to make myself look good, and to arouse Ben even more.
> During college, there was a group of girls in my suite, and we had rivalries over looks, and status, and boys. We never fought at school, but we would go to this lake house in New Hampshire, and all the pent-up aggression would come out.
> Did you want fights to start?
> Yes. I totally wanted girls to start shit with me. I would turn it into a fight.
Ben has slid up in the bed, and his cock is throbbing again like it did just before he came. I can tell he wants to cum again, but in my mouth?
> Let me guess. Karen doesn't suck your cock?
> She did on our honeymoon. But never since.
> Figures. What a bitch.
> Can I ... do it to you?
> Yes, Ben, do it. Fuck my face.
Ben comes on my mouth and cheeks, falling gratefully into my arms when he's done.
> Who's better in bed, your wife or me?
> You are, Michelle.
> Who's a better fighter, me or your wife?
> I don't know. I've never seen either of you fight.
> You will.
> Lucky me.
To be continued......
