Truth vs. Appearances

She looked up at, then past him, brown as the cherrywood lingerie chest she could see over his shoulder. The favorite part of the act was over - - the part where he kneeled above her, his dick poised just at the entrance of her waiting pussy. The slow penetration was always-- no matter how much she wanted it to reflect her growing apprehension at their relationship and his ever-present coldness (except in the bedroom, and then only for the sake of his ego)-- a mini-seduction. It was the last give-and-take, the last remaining flirtation, unconscious and slippery and gratifying; the last honest thing between them now.

He was looking down at her with his usual quizzical expression, that mix of "Yeah, you let me fuck you again even though you love me and I know you love me and you know that I don't love you and you think I only love myself and you're right but it doesn't matter because I'm the one fucking you right now and we both know it feels good" and "Ahh, pussy; I love this shit" that she'd learned to recognize after the initial haze of ex-virginity novelty and then, her blind love for him had worn off. His thick, wood-brown cock wetly sluiced in and out, (thank God for lubricated condoms), and her hips began the slow, automatic roll they'd learned the first time they'd done this. Her clit, laid bare by the parting of her lips, pouted for the base of his dick. But that move wouldn't come later, she knew.

There had been a time when she'd been unaware of any of this, blinded by her newfound and long-buried sensuality, shoveled underneath layers of insecurity and NiceGirlsDon't and self-righteous Waiting for The Right One.

Instead, She'd gotten Mr. Seems Like The Right One, with his suggestive looks and hands-off dates until just the right time, until she'd been ripe and willing and dripping with the knowledge that yes, she Could Trust Him With This.

She almost laughed at the memory. The pain had been brief, mostly psychological, sure, as she'd owned a dildo before having sex with him. But still: he'd seemed so big, so thick, so strong and sure, just like the rest of him. When she felt that hot, velvet rod push into her, and heard herself gasp and his polite, "Are you okay?", she'd known it was far too late, that she'd just surrendered everything to him. Even then, his lovemaking had a practiced, automated detachment to it, despite his playfulness and those first pleas of "Hold me…yes.... like that; tighter...tighter..." while he slowly moved inside her.

Later on, he'd told her that he'd been inside her once before, when they'd almost had sex. "I was halfway inside you then, but I stopped because you said to. You weren't that tight that night. You were just tense when we finally did it. That's why it hurt."

The insult stung even now, a year and a half later. She stopped herself from looking into his eyes, afraid of what she might betray if she did. He was still pumping steadily, no doubt thinking she was on the brink. She gave a moan of resolution, and hoped he'd take it as encouragement.

"You're holding back," he said. She didn't have to see the knowing smile because it was in his voice.

She didn't answer.

Dick sliding in and out of pussy, making all the sounds she used to adore, the warm softness that would begin in her belly and ripple outwards until her entire body was abuzz and ready until it thrummed and tensed and parts of her felt they would coil until she broke like light in a prism.

"Hmm. . .How’s this?" he said, pulling her ankles upon his shoulders, his body arched over hers. She closed her eyes and found she it took little to distract her from the kindling of that pre-orgasmic warmth.

She remembered the second time they'd had sex, after spending the night at his house: a cold, winter morning, spooned together for warmth when they had somehow began moving against one another until the moving had become writhing and panting and the absent brushes of hands became tickles and caresses and the murmurs became giggles and the soft pants and gasps. She'd never felt so powerful, so wonderful, so gloriously feminine as she had straddling his lap, slowly taking his rigid cock into her wetness, learning the rhythm of up-and-down she thought she would have never been able to learn. He'd helped her, patiently waiting for her to set the pace, holding her hips in his hands. They were a little rough, she remembered. The pads of his fingers rasped against her cheeks. She couldn't remember his eyes, though. Had he even looked at her as she danced above him? His mouth had murmured gentle instruction that she remembered easily. "Don't stop...yesss..a little harder..." She'd laughed joyously as she came, triumphant and sweaty and smiling. He'd groaned and spurted beneath and into the condom beneath her. "Perfect," he'd pronounced. She'd thought it would always be that way.

His thrusts were more determined now; she could hear the rasping of her hair and ears against the pillows. Her pussy, cooperative little animal that it was, was accommodating him nicely: still wet and warm, although the memories of good sex were making it more so than it should have been. She arched her back slightly, hoping he wouldn't notice, to change the angle less to her liking. He reached down to toy with her exposed clit.

She sighed. Didn't he know to wet his fingers first? The once-thrilling pads of his fingers now grated against her delicate flesh, and she wriggled a little in protest. He took it as a sign and plunged deeper, his hands going back to hold her legs once more. She thought of when he used to touch her, how his hands could elicit groans and cries and pleas and shouts of contented laughter. There was a spot, she knew, that he could hit, and she would laugh as if being tickled from the inside - - a joyous place. Not like now.

"You're still holding back," he murmured. Damnit, wasn't he done yet? She almost rolled her eyes.

"Yes, I'm holding back!" she wanted to scream at him. "I'm holding back because I miss what sex used to be like, what it should be, because I know you count my orgasms, because I know you're a selfish, self-centered bastard who fucks other women and doesn't give a shit about me except to know that you can still fuck me when you want, that you can make me come."

But of course, she didn't say that. She gently dislodged him and turned over, knowing the drill, hating that her pussy was still wet, but appreciating that it, at least, had fallen into the routine better than she had. At least she wouldn't have to explain herself. The relative cool of the air fanned her ass cheeks as she presented herself to him.

The penetration was slow, supposedly to arouse her, to tease her, to make her want it. She didn't care anymore. Couldn't be bothered. They were alike in that way: she gave herself slowly to him to make her want him - - but he couldn't be bothered.

She moved with him eagerly, as she once had with her entire being. Ass undulating, pussy fucking him now, slowly at first, deep, deliberate strokes. But she never showed him her face, never looked over her shoulder at him with a sly smile on her face, or one of surprised pleasure. Her nipples rubbed to life against the cotton sheet as she watched her fingers curl convincingly around the iron scrollwork of her headboard. His breath was coming in deep, ever-quickening gasps. He was close now.

His fingers felt less rough on her hips as they pulled her back onto him. She quelled a tingle as his stroke deepened. She wouldn't give him the pleasure, she resolved. When moved to her cheeks to spread them, she almost grinned with relief. He would watch his dick, slick with her, as it plunged into her. It always made him come.

"Baby.."

Bastard wouldn't even say her name anymore. She wouldn't answer.

His thighs were trembling now; she could feel them when they slapped momentarily against her still, calm, stoic ones. She reached between her legs and fondled him, a slow smile of final contentment on her face. There was an instant when she questioned herself, wondered if that was the right thing to do, then felt his control give and his balls quiver.

"Babe..coming," he half-gasped.

He shuddered into her and she looked blankly at the pale gold wall behind her bed. Through the scrollwork, the shadows made it look like someone had echoed the pattern in silver-grey paint on the wall itself. She felt him move from him, heard him fumbling with the condom, the soft crackle of latex against plastic as the condom went into the wastebasket. Then he was sighing contentedly and lying back down beside her, his arms behind his head. His

elbow nudged her skull.

She turned over, thighs relaxed, and slipped her hand between her thighs.

Her fingers felt gentle and loving as she stroked and circled the firm and waiting nubbin. Her nipples ached and throbbed; her skin flickered, kindled, and glowed as she lay, her back turned to him, eyes open and staring into her memory of what she'd thought sex would be like The orgasm was a small, private thing; a secret. Her secret. Her breathing remained even, a small sigh the only sign of her release. She smiled to herself.

"Did you...?" She wanted to laugh at the confidence in his voice.

"Did you?" She echoed his tone.