“I’m horny.”

“I’m horny.” I’m snuggling on River at bedtime and feeling it. If you really want to know, I was looking at the pictures of the soccer babe with the body paint bikini in the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated that I made off with earlier in the week. Even though I don’t read magazines. I show River. “What do you like about the picture? The suit? The small boobs?” Well, yeah, I like the small boobs, but there's that other question. “Is it a suit?” “Oh. It’s the paint. But what do they do with her nips? She’s gotta have pasties.” “Nope. See?”

Soccer babes are good. River and I used to play together when we met. Now I’d like to paint something on River. She’d look good in a suit like that. I’ve heard stories from women going out in public like that without being noticed, but I’m not sure I believe them. Wouldn’t it be kind of insulting not to be noticed? Maybe they just didn’t notice anybody noticing.

“I’m horny.” “I like that. It’s cute. What do you want to do about it?” “Fuck you.” “Anything in mind?” “A nice weeknight fuck.” “Sounds good.”

I straddle River and we talk about all kinds of weird stuff while I’m stroking my cock and feeling her tits and looking at her face and getting hard. Something about Jesus I think. Mostly stuff I can’t remember. Something about how she looks resigned to being fucked tonight. She denies it. I believe her.

When I’m good and ready I do the left/right thing to get between her legs and rub my stiffie on her. It’s going in with no hands tonight. Just a smooth segue.

Or not. It’s not going anywhere, despite my efforts. “Is that the right place?” (How long have we been doing this?) “Is something in the way?” She reaches down and spreads her lips. There it goes. Just a little fuck at first. But every little bit feels nice. Gradually deeper as her lubrication penetrates bit by bit along with my cock. I like it that way. More anticipation. And more satisfaction when we finally grind all the way together, my pubes against hers. And fuck.

“The problem with having me on top is that I always want to go slow.” She’s always liked it fast and hard. I like to savor the fuck, every nuance of feeling as the head of my cock slides between her lips, through the frill at the opening of her pussy, into her depths, the sleeve, the box, the varying amounts of friction, sometimes sticky, sometimes smooth, my shaft pushing deeper into her until I feel the soft yielding of her cervix, feel my breath moving in and out, shudder involuntarily at our mutual . . . mutualness.

“Slow is good.” It’s intimate and bonding. Fancy hug. Everything I like. And . . . “I’m getting there.” “Slow finish?” “It might take a while.” I have to work at keeping the feeling building without losing it. Deep down I don’t want to work that hard. Deep down I want to fuck. I’m going faster. “Are you doing that for me?” “I’m doing it because I want to. I don’t really know why.” Something instinctual I guess.

I keep the speed up right through my orgasm. Variety. It can be almost painful sometimes. And confusing. Am I coming? Of course. Then why does it feel like this? Why do I feel like this? I don’t care. It still feels good. Variety. Anticipation and release in a strange and long-lasting combination that often leaves me wanting more the next morning.

But for now it’s a nice horny weeknight fuck.