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You Were with Me All the While Ch. 02

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Babes

Willster: brb…buttmunch on the phone

JennyJ: eww, baby, you know i love when you talk dirty 🙂

After our intense first meeting, Will and I became inseparable—online that is. Because he worked six 12-hour shifts per week, our time together was limited to a weekend night, maybe two if he slept at my place all day while I did the mommy thing. Or if he were too lazy to go home. The rest of the week, we instant messaged each other for an hour or more each night. (OK, usually more.)

Will worked nights in a call center, answering incoming customer calls for a major computer manufacturer. “Buttmunch” was his irritable term for the clueless customers who called in with complaints about their computers not starting (unplugged), their printers jamming (100 pieces of card stock in the printer tray), and their modems not flashing (yep, not plugged into the computer). I found his sarcasm kind of charming—and I knew full well that he was underemployed in his $12.00/hr. job. And I knew that he knew it too. Little by little he had been sharing his recent history with me, and he was turning out to be one complicated dude.

But more about him and his issues another time. This story is about me.

For the several weeks after our initial fuckfest, the weekend sex was hotter and juicier than a Wendy’s Double with everything. Will knew how to use his fingers and tongue on me and in me to get my pussy juices squirting and splashing. He was one of only two men I had ever been with who had no problem catching and swallowing the volumes of fluid I gush when come. And I come a lot. We damaged more than one mattress over those first few weeks.

But after five or six weeks of steady and hard sexin’, I started to notice a change in Will’s approach to me as a friend/date/girlfriend and in his approach to sex. As Dr. Evil said to Frau Farbissina, “It got weird.”

He no longer locked eyes with me while he grunted on top of me. He didn’t call during the week anymore—instead relying on IM for communication. He started saying things like, “I might not get to see you this weekend because I’m really busy” and “I’m just a little stressed out and need some downtime.” Busy? Stressed out!? He didn’t know from busy, as my Jewish mother used to say—I’m a single mom of five with a full-time job and a mortgage hanging in the balance. I know busy. I know stressed out. And you, single guy with no real responsibilities, are not stressed out!

But I quietly accepted his withdrawal and watched closely. If I’d learned anything from being married to a tortured soul for 15 years, it was how to pull back and observe before responding to the drama. Although it could be tiresome in the moment, I secretly enjoyed his angst. It was a relief to be with someone more self-absorbed than I was—you know, like hanging out with a fat girl because you look skinny by comparison? As long as Will was focusing so much on his own dysfunction, I came off as a normal, happy, and well-adjusted mother and member of society—June Cleaver (but with a naughty splash of Xaviera Hollander).

After a couple weeks of so-so sex and even less-inspiring conversation, I thought I might go back to the online dating Web site to see if other local men would pique my interest. I had been away from the site for some time—since I’d been falling hard for Will—and I was shocked to see the large number of messages in my inbox. One in particular stood out—a cutie named Bryce, who claimed to have a grown-up job. I replied to his assertion that I seemed both pretty and normal (ha!), saying that I thought he seemed cute and normal as well. We exchanged some messages over the dating site for about balgat escort a week. Interestingly, we knew many of the same people, as he had gone to the same university I had attended for my PhD. After several phone conversations, one of which included some hot phone sex, we decided to meet.

Bryce was a single guy. Never married. No children. Owned a little condo, where he lived with a persnickety cat. Politically conservative. A little arrogant about his looks and education. We had arranged to meet for lunch one day—safe and easy to escape if one of us found the other to be a total Quasimodo or an insufferable boor. However, that day my youngest child was sick, and I had to stay home. Not a good idea to take a feverish child on a first date. I called Bryce’s cell phone repeatedly and left several messages telling him I could not meet him, but he never answered. Long story short—he had forgotten his cell phone that day, had waited for me for an hour, and was feeling humiliated.

When we finally connected later in the day and I had the chance to explain, he seemed relieved, but a little irritated. (Hey, I didn’t tell him to forget his cell phone!) I was beginning to get the “asshole” vibe from this one too. Sigh. So much for normal. And I was beginning to realize that having five children was indeed going to impede my dating life.

After reassuring him for the tenth time that I did not stand him up and was indeed interested in meeting him, I suggested we go out later that night. My older children were willing to babysit for a short while so I could get out of the house. He thought that was fine, but was “not feeling very social,” so would I like to just come over to his place? Wow, alarm bells were going off in my head—he’s not willing to go out, but would like me to come to his place? As with many, other unfortunate events in my life, I ignored those clanging bells, and dressed to meet him, more intrigued by the thought of meeting a new man than concerned about protecting my heart (or physical well-being, for that matter).

And again, if I must say so myself, I was a freakin’ knockout. I carefully applied my make-up, focusing on my eyes and lips, and I styled my hair into soft, flowing waves. Being a late fall evening, I wore a slightly snug v-neck sweater that emphasized my pretty cleavage, and the chill in the air pinked up my cheeks and gave my eyes a glistening look, all of which I knew implied “Healthy Midwestern Girl” to this somewhat conservative, typical Indiana guy.

I arrived at his condo, and he greeted me at the door with a smile and a red rose.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

I could tell he was nervous. He gave me the tour of his little bachelor place, introduced me to the antisocial cat, and offered me a glass of wine. I winced as he handed me the glass if White Zinfandel, and I tried not to say “Friends don’t let friends drink White Zin,” but I took the glass graciously and sipped it slowly. Ok, so he wasn’t as cosmopolitan as he tried to seem. He was still cute, if a little short for my taste and just a bit on the chubby side. Fortunately, I like a guy with a little heft to his frame, so I was definitely feeling an attraction. And I was horny as a goat, considering that sex with Will was getting less and less frequent and less and less exciting.

Bryce led me to the basement rec room, where we watched a cable show we both really liked and sipped his box-o-wine. He was polite and kept his distance for the first half hour, but then he put his hand on my knee and scooted toward me. He teased me a little—which, of course, I secretly loved, by pulling so close to batıkent escort me that his arm and chest pressed my left breast, and then he took my chin in his hand and just looked at me. I swallowed hard, wondering what he had in mind.

He leaned in for a kiss—just a gentle brush of his lips on mine, really. He did this for several seconds, which seemed more like hours, as I ached to have him kiss me roughly and passionately. I just love hard kissing—especially with a man I’m not into personally. If it’s just sex with little emotional connection, then I at least want it to be a memorable sex act. I started to lean into his kiss, nudging my breasts against his arm. I slipped my arm around his neck and cupped the back of his head, holding his face close to mine to show him that I wanted a harder kiss. We kissed for several minutes, and then I could tell he was getting aroused by the way he was shifting on the couch. The kissing got more intense and he started groaning into my open mouth. I gave off a few little whimpers and moans to let him know I was enjoying him. With no warning, he pushed me down onto the couch, roughly shoved up my sweater, and starting massaging my tits through my rose-colored bra. He groaned loudly as he shoved a hand under my bra cups and starting squeezing my full breasts hard.

“Your tits are so big,” he moaned into my mouth, “…for a girl your size.”

“Can I suck on them? Please?”

Thrilled that he was finally getting into it, I grunted my standard “God, yes.” He pulled my thin sweater up, but not all the way off, so that my hands were tangled in the sleeves above my head. I was getting hotter and hotter, loving the way my hands were restrained, as he started to lift and lick my breasts. Again, he teased. He stayed away from my sensitive and by-then aching nipples for what seemed like 15 minutes, but which was no more than a minute, as he licked and squeezed the flesh of my breasts slowly and completely. Finally, he swooped down onto my nipple and sucked it roughly as he twisted the other nipple in his fingers. I moaned loudly (but did not come, I noted, like I did when Will played with my tits), but then I jumped as he actually bit my nipple.

“Ouch!” I yelled. I was more surprised than hurt (but that one nipple was fairly tender the next day).

“I’m, sorry,” Bryce said huskily between sucks and licks. “I thought you’d like that….”

“Just be a little less bite-y?” I asked.

We continued to kiss, and he was gentler with my breasts. He threw in a few, “God, you’re hot”s and then, of course, being the typical horny online guy that he was, Bryce went stampeding for my clitoris before I was really ready. But within a moment or two, his assertive kneading of my mound and ass got me revved up again. OK, so he wasn’t Will. I didn’t feel this desire to be possessed by him like I did when I was with Will; but Bryce was there, he was cute, he kissed great, and I was quivering like a Jell-o salad. “Love the one you’re with…” and all that. So I went with it.

Bryce huskily asked me to go upstairs with him. He smiled charmingly (but not with that boyish charm that Will possessed, I noted), and I followed him up to the first and then the second floor.

We got to his bedroom, where he wrapped his arms around me, grabbed my ass, and rubbed me between the legs from behind. As he sucked on my neck, he lifted my leg and practically tossed me onto his bed. Before I knew it, my clothes were off, and he had his fingers pumping in and out of my pussy. At first it kinda hurt…he was pretty rough, and I wasn’t quite as wet as I like to be for a full-finger ankara escort assault.

All of a sudden, I started thinking, “What am I doing here? I don’t know this guy….I don’t even particularly like this guy!”

I started to panic…I squirmed under Bryce in an attempt to extricate myself from him. But he must have taken my shimmying and head thrashing as signs of excitement, and so he got more aggressive with his kissing and the finger fucking. I calmed myself with a deep breath as I turned my head from his. Then I closed my eyes and thought about Will. As Bryce thrust his three fingers into me roughly and diddled my clit with his thumb, I recalled my first time with Will….the intensity, the attraction, and the desire to please each other that we both experienced. It took a minute, but with visions of Will pumping in and out of me, asking me how I liked to have his thick cock stretch me open, I came all over Bryce’s fingers and his bed. Oops. I guess I had forgotten to tell him about the squirting thing I do….that I tend to make a mess and that he should put a couple of towels down.

“Good God!” he yelled. “What was that?”

“Did I forget to mention that I’m a squirter?”

“Yeah, I would have remembered that. Damn, my comforter’s soaked…”

I felt embarrassed and more than a little chastised by this pompous fart of man.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and then I looked into his eyes to see if he was really mad or was just taken off guard by “Jenny’s Wet ‘n Wild Ride.” I think he saw that I was afraid that I’d pissed him off…so in his one moment of genuine gentleness the entire night, he leaned down and kissed me, and said it was all right…he had never experienced a squirter before, although he’d heard about it. He said it was very hot…and then he asked if he could try it again.

Before I knew what was happening, Bryce removed his pants and boxers, and was ramming his cock into me hard. He held my hands above my head, something that normally sends me over the edge. But he was a little scary, almost like he was punishing me for soiling his precious comforter.

The tighter he gripped my wrists, the more determined I was to get something out of the ordeal. So I closed my eyes, and I imagined that he was Will: Will holding me down because he knows that I like it (and that I trust him); Will looking into my eyes and smiling, his eyes flashing as he approaches orgasm; Will urging me to come for him…to stroke my own clit for him as he fucks me so that I splash on and around his cock.

“Get me wet, baby” my fantasy-Will said.

“I need a shower, baby; gush all over me.”

So as poor Bryce jammed away at my now-tender pussy, I felt the rumbling deep behind my clit…the beginning vibrations of a monster orgasm. In my mind’s eye, it was Will, and not this buffoon Bryce, who was enjoying the slick warmth of my precious pussy. I bucked my hips hard against him, as “Will” grunted out his orgasm into my clenching cunt. With one last thought of Will and his large arms, beautiful hair, and soft lips, I clenched my eyes shut and bucked my hips hard, streaming a gush of fluid all around and past Bryce’s cock. As at least eight ounces of my pussy juice covered Bryce’s abdomen, chest, and darling comforter, I screamed out, “Oh, God, Will, yes!”

Oops.

Needless to say, I quickly got up and got dressed. I kissed Bryce on the cheek, my eyes never meeting his.

“Um, thanks, Bryce. That was, uh, awesome. I better get going,” I said, and then I left him sitting there looking dumbfounded in a pool of my pussy juices. I ran down the steps, out his door, and to my car.

As I turned the key in the ignition, I busted out laughing.

“Thanks, baby doll!” I yelled to a non-present Will. Even when he was not with me, he was with me; how do you fight that?

I was determined to get that boy back in my bed, back inside me, and back to feeling like he couldn’t live without me.

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