So the festival of fornication I had planned didn’t quite work out — penis interrupted — because after hooking up with the Terminator, I could barely walk for several days, never mind have another session of acrobatic fucking.
I’m horny, but I have my limits, and Terminator took me there. I was stiff and sore and satisfied, so I decided to cancel the ex (again, but he must be used to it by now) and decided that the ex and I weren’t going to happen again. He truly is my “In Case of Emergency” cock, and I really don’t need him at the moment. Of course I didn’t say it like that to him, but I did let him know it wasn’t going to happen again. He was disappointed, but he’s not exactly crying himself to sleep.
Terminator was pretty brutal during our last hook-up, and I mean that in the sexiest way. He was dominant but tender, an unusual and orgasmic combination if there ever was one. “I’m glad I didn’t hold back,” he said when I told him it would be our last time. All those times he told me that he was taking it easy on me, he was serious. Full-force Terminator is…hard. My hip joints ached, I had a bruise on one knee (?), my lower back creaked, I had a very slight bruise at the base of my throat where his hand was around my neck. My body creaked like an old door every time I got out of a chair, which I couldn’t do without grunting loudly. I had been pummeled. It made me smile.
Thankfully, I had a week to recover and be penitent (always the Catholic schoolgirl) before meeting with J. again. I didn’t feel terribly guilty or horrible for seeing the Terminator again because I truly believed it was over and I was o.k. with it. I’m happy with J. and our relationship. But as usual, Terminator gets under my skin. A few days later I was on a bus and he came into my head. I relived our time together, our conversations and at the thought that it was over, started crying. Again. As I stared out the window and wept silently, I dried the tears from my face and thought “How can I be so in love with this man.?” I know it and accept it, but I still can’t believe it. It’s a constant surprise. I got myself under control, and had no plans to see him or contact him. It just hurt. badly.
Image: Passion, by Sir Francis Bernard Dickee 1892, via Art Renewal Center. Private Collecton