I was brave when Phillip came home. I concentrated only on his return, his physical presence, on what he meant to me at the moment he was with me. I did not think of where he came from, who had touched his body, who he had touched as intimately as he would touch me. I did not imagine the lips which had lain around his cock, nor the voices whose moans and shouts were effected by his penetrations. Here I was - ready, vibrating with lust, for him, a sacrifice on the altar of eros, all intent on present feelings, without any past and oblivious of any future.
No thought then, of other lips when my lips encircled his cock, no thought where this delicious, firm, succulent cock had been when it entered my body, only my shouts and moans are real. Don't think, just let things happen, feel how my body responds to his, how we get in tune, how one climax asks for one even greater. His lips, his skin, his hair, his eyes, his voice, his cock. All of them touch the center of my universe and make it explode like a supernova. My sex, my universe.
And then winding down, spooning in the warm bed, it is like flying I am so relaxed, so fulfilled, so tired. Gentle touches, rubbing shoulders and backs, whispering meaninglessly meaningful nothings in the dark. I let myself be overpowered by his presence - I am him and he is me. And then sleep.
Right now he is at his Editor's, making plans for their trip to the Closing Ceremony of the Olympics. I have not asked what it was like last week. I haven't even thanked him for the roses. I feel so brittle at the moment - not knowing if I can bear him telling of his conquests, of pussies had and blowjobs got. I feel as if it will make me break, shatter into little pieces, so small that no amount of love will ever be able to put them together again ...
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