When we’re fucking, and he’s just about to come, there’s always a split-second moment when he has to decide: hold back or let go? If he pulls out quickly and closes his eyes so he can’t see the wet hole of my twitching cunt desperate for him to shove it back in, he can deny himself an orgasm now, but keep it in the bank for another fuck half an hour later. If he lets go, he gets that delightful thudding pulse running through his cock, and the wave of satisfied release as he dumps spunk inside me, but the chances of us fucking again shortly afterwards reduce dramatically. It’s a tricky decision. And sometimes it’s one that he doesn’t get to make.

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He breezes into the kitchen, grins at me in a self-satisfied way and proudly tells me “look!” before whipping out his cock. And I think ‘Ahh… my muse.’ My beloved muse. My weird, nerdy, playful, dodgy, nervous wreck of a muse.

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This story is an addition to the ‘emotional fucks‘ series: jealousy fuck. With many thanks to the reader who suggested adding something like this to the pile! 

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I like it when he wears my knickers. I like it when he wears short silk shorts, too – the kind he’s bought for me but that look too good on him for us not to share the pleasure. Given my love of seeing him wearing my clothes, it’s inevitable that one night I suggest to him: “Let’s swap clothes.”

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When the fuck is done, he doesn’t ask why I’m crying. Even though this is make up sex, and this weeping is more intense than any that’s come before. He doesn’t ask why, he just holds me. Kneeling on the floor, with my arms wrapped round his neck, and his spunk rapidly cooling on the inside of my thighs, I sob and sob and sob. And he doesn’t ask me why.

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