God, I love fucking you.
Being inside of you is like coming home. I love the way you grip me, slick and tight.
I love the way your body feels beneath me. I know it completely–the curve of your hip, the pulse at your neck, the rhythm of your hips, the feel of your hands on my back. I know your cries of pleasure. I know how you like it when I do…
Oh yes. That sound you’re making. I know what it means, and I love that too.
I love fucking you right now, and I hate myself for it.
Fucking you is like coming home, but this isn’t my home anymore.
We told them we were meeting to sign some final papers. We didn’t tell them we were meeting here, at this empty house we once shared.
We didn’t tell them what was about to happen.
In fairness, we didn’t know either.
We didn’t know we would end up driving here together. We didn’t know we would end up standing here in this darkened, empty living room. We didn’t know the cold, polite shells we’d build around ourselves for our own protection would crack, that one word would lead to another, and the next thing we knew we’d be screaming at each other, silhouetted by the glow of the streetlights through the picture window.
We didn’t know I would grab you by the arms, shove you against the wall and kiss you or that your legs and arms would wrap themselves around me that I would bury my head in your neck as your breath turned to harsh, hungry rasps.
Except that–maybe–deep down, we did. Certainly, it would explain the condom.
Your hands tore open the buttons of my shirt. I wasn’t gentle when I pulled off your blazer, ripped open your blouse. The light made the skin of your stomach glow. I know every bit of that skin, every birthmark.
Your hands fumbled with my belt buckle while I did the same with your bra clasp. Your breasts were heavy and familiar in my hands. I felt those large, dark nipples I love so well harden against my palms, and then they were in my mouth, as we sank to our knees.
Now your skirt has been thrown aside. Now my pants are around my ankles. I’m trying to squirm free of them while sucking on your clit through your panties, tasting your wetness even through the cotton.
You cry out as you come, but I’m not finished with you yet. Not as long as my cock is throbbing. Not with this hunger to bury myself inside you.
Not while this urgency to come home burns in me.
Which brings us to this moment. This moment of sliding inside of you. This moment of coming home.
We both feel it. It’s a primal connection that has been there from the moment we met. It was there the moment we made eye contact at my roommate’s party back in university. It was there that first time in my tiny bed. It was there on our wedding night as you moved up and down on top of me, your hands on my chest and your eyes glazed with pleasure. It was there when we moved into this house when I bent you over our brand new sofa. It’s been there through good times and bad, through joys, sorrows, and frustration, and while it may have gone dormant while the myriad gears that powered our relationship stopped one by one, it certainly never died.
Your body belongs to me My body belongs to you. I still live to come home in you.
And I hate myself for it. I hate you for what you’ve done to me. I hate us both for the power we still have over each other.
But I love fucking you. And you…well, we both know what you love.
So we keep fucking. Through anger and heartbreak and guilt. Feelings that grow stronger with each stroke, causing us to go harder and faster to match the rising intensity until our bodies are slamming together, driving against each other and then pulling away again and again and ag…ah…Ah…AH!
I‘m coming. I‘m coming so hard. I feel your teeth sink into my shoulder and you nails claw my back as you join me in climax, riding waves of contraction and release as our bodies clench and release like fists.
At last, we’ve both come home.
I brush sweat slicked hair away from your forehead. You cup my cheek with your palm.
Neither one of us says a word.
Somewhere in the depths of this empty house, a furnace clicks as we lie in each other’s arms, feeling our breathing return to normal. And with each slowing breath, the heat fades and the anger fades and the sorrow fades leaving emptiness behind and the realization that neither of us will ever be coming home again.
The Gateway Boyfriend is the man women date just after The Jerk Who Breaks Her Heart and just before she meets the One. It’s not a life he asked for or chose, but he makes the best of it. His professional life includes stints as a stand-up comic, writer, subsitute teacher, martial arts instructor, security guard, and professional wrestling referee. He lives alone. Visit him on the web athttp://thegatewayboyfriend.blogspot.ca or follow him on Twitter at https://twitter.com/gatewayboyfrnd.