I had lost sleep in the last few days, so I was glad to get into bed. I got under the sheets, relaxed and lay comfortably on a thick down pillow, casually staring at her through half-closed eyes as she finished undressing. It occurred to me that she always undresses her top half first. Probably knows the effect her breasts have on men.
A bit of prancing around later, she climbed into bed, nude. Stretched a bit, then turned to look at me quizzically. "What's wrong?"
"We're breaking up. I'm unhappy."
"Come on, stop that. Laugh!"
"What's there to laugh about?"
"I want you to laugh!" But after saying goodbye to Astrid, I no longer felt obliged to do her bidding; so I kept on looking morose instead. I'm no actor; I usually look the way I feel inside. But she wouldn't accept a reaction at odds with her wishes. She reached over, and through the sheets, poked me in the ribs with nimble fingers. At first it felt annoying, then it started to tickle. She climbed into a position kneedling astride my hips, and dug in with both hands. In spite of myself, I was soon laughing, close to tears.
"Hey, stop it!" I half giggled. "What do you want from me?"
"I told you: I just want to sleep with you."
"Oh, you meant... " I wasn't playing dumb, I really didn't know. With her you never know. Though physically uninhibited and sometimes capable of wild abandon, she's a verbal prude who would never use words like "fuck" or even "screw", not even "making love". Damn inscrutable women who speak in euphemisms!
"That's what I told you, isn't it?" She started to caress me. Not to please me, just to arouse me to please her. Damn egotist! But she knew how to work men. Feeling her hands on me, gazing up at those perfect breasts, instinct and habit soon got the better of me. Besides, it's not like I didn't want to; I just hadn't expected it. My idea of a goodbye is different. Did she believe in a farewell fuck? Maybe tomorrow I'd be a free man. But I'm an unprincipled, spineless hedonist, one who chooses to ignore freedom when he's underneath a pretty blonde with big, bobbing, perfect breasts.
Satisfied that she had my interest, she lithely changed position. She liked riding; one of her hobbies was dressage. Did riding a horse get her off, I briefly mused, or at least aroused? My nose was engulfed by the musk of her sex. Not unpleasant, really: She kept it very clean and tempered the remaining mild mackerel taint with a dab of eau de toilette. Her pubic hair was thin, perhaps recently trimmed back to give my tongue easy access. The thought crossed my mind that it was probably not for my benefit. But her pheromones were doing their number on me. I didn't pause to indulge in twinges of jealousy but concentrated on my mission: Two licks around the vagina, a careful flick to the clitoris, repeat. That's how she likes it. Soon her body was undulating in delight, her outpourings raising the level of spittle in my mouth.
Another supple turn of her body, and she was handing me a condom. She takes the Pill, but she worries about AIDS and probably loathes to have her immaculate body befouled by sticky, rancid-smelling white goo. Not that I blame her, but I often missed the way my ex felt inside, with nothing between us.
She perched impatiently at my side as I fumbled with the rubber. The evil deed done, my manhood in a sterile wrapping, she gleefully impaled herself on it. Just a hint of direction from her hand, a smooth downward glide of her hips like the descent of an eagle on its prey, and I had been engulfed.
Once again, I lay back and relaxed, consigned to my fate like her four-hooved mounts. Pinned between her knees, resistance is futile, as is cooperation. She was rocking back and forth on my hips, not so much in and out as forward and back, probably the same way she moves in the saddle. At least I was spared the usual fear of men being ridden: The ever-present tense expectation that, in exuberance, she would lift her hips just a bit too far, that I would fall out of her and she would come crashing down on my shaft at an awkward angle, painfully bending it or worse. It occurred to me that it's just as well she uses euphemisms, because standard terms like "making love" wouldn't be appropriate for what she does. She was masturbating, and I was her dildo.
Soon her pace grew more urgent. Her breathing grew ragged as she rocked herself into a gallop. Her body tensed, she gave a quiet kind of gasp, and quickly slowed to a standstill, panting and sated. It was over for her.
Not coaxed to near-finish as she had been, and hampered by the insensate rubber, I never had a chance to finish together with her. But she probably knew from experience that men take unkindly to sex without a climax. Her turn to temporarily submit, she allowed me to clamber on top. I glowed in my brief moment of borrowed superiority. She wasn't interested any more, and I knew she'd be getting impatient, so I hurried. She helped me by swivelling her hips from side to side so I could grasp her firm buttocks in my hands. It was awkward supporting my weight while doing this, but I enjoyed the feeling and managed to finish before she had reason to complain. I don't think it was love, but for the moment I was feeling all right. Then she rolled over and flicked off the light as I knotted my condom and hoisted it overboard.
Still dripping slightly, I cuddled up to her buttocks and hugged her back as she silently drifted off to sleep. I briefly thought about tomorrow, about goodbye, about work and about the woman I had left for her. But I was tired, so I slept.