What Becomes of the Past?

I don't know what I was born to do. Sometimes, I believe I was born to write. Even with all of my questionable grammar, it has always been what I've been best at. In childhood, I dreamed of being a teacher, a lawyer, a nurse, and even a doctor. But when I was 14, I settled on becoming a writer. Not settled. It chose me. It knew it was in me. I spent a great part of my preteen years filling up pages of journals with little girl fantasies and woes. I wrote fictional stories based on the cartoons I watched. By the time I was 14, I had written love stories starring me and members of G.I. Joe, Voltron and the Transformers. I wish I had them still just to laugh at how awful they must have been.

I communicated best through my written words. My resumes, my cover letters, my poetry, my journalism homework, and even my love letters belied the unpolished voice inside of my head. My writing made me romantic, intelligent, thoughtful, caring, and sexy. It was easy to accept and not messy. There were no tears in my letters, and, now, in this century, emails. What gets stuck in my throat and trapped behind my eyes, flows easily through my fingertips. The words show up on the screen with the curser blinking at the end of every perfectly formed sentence. My heart rate speeds. My clit throbs. My pussy dampens. An orgasm swirls inside of me as I push the words out of my brain and type them. I imagine you reading this, understanding this, and then showering me with a thousand kisses as your cock thrusts into me. Like it did before. Like you used to do when we were younger.

Remember us playing hooky from work in our early twenties and sharing a cheap mattress on a metal frame that squeaked every time we breathed? You put so much effort into making love to me in those days. Your long body, nearly a foot longer than mine, would be stretched out on top of me and your hard dick would be pressing painfully against my thigh as you made sure I was nice and wet for you. I would wrap my arms around your head and playfully try to smother you with my tits. You'd break free, lick my nipples and twist them until they were hard sensitive peaks. You'd drag the rough stubble on your cheeks over them knowing how much I liked that little painful nipple play kink. "I thought your tits were so tiny until I took off your shirt for the first time," you'd reminisce as you licked down my belly. "I couldn't believe how big they were." At this point, you'd reach up and squeeze one. "More than a mouthful," you'd laugh just before you buried your face between my legs.

I was so lucky to have a lover like you in college. All my previous boyfriends were quick and stingy, but you liked eating pussy. You loved eating my pussy. Some guy you knew told you that he could steal your girlfriend if you didn't eat her pussy. I wasn't going anywhere. I still play with myself thinking about how good you used to be. How you'd tease me with quick little baby licks just above my clit as your fingers slid up and down my slit—coaxing those juices out. First one finger, then two, and maybe even three if I was really excited as your thumb rubbed those tight bundle of nerves out from underneath its hood. When I would start to go half wild with lust, orgasm already tightening the muscles in my thighs, you would pull your mouth back and stare at my exposed swollen clit like it could cure cancer... Well, maybe just the common cold. Then, you'd smirk, because you knew you had me. Had me forever. One short lick and I was crying. A second long lick and I wrapped my legs around your head. Finally, a third lick and I was pushing your face into my cunt like a mad woman. If you suffocated, I didn't care. I was selfish like that. You were the only man that could make me cum. Cum hard, and cum more than once.

After I came you'd fuck me. You liked me to be on top. I felt like a queen on a throne. Bouncing up and down on that hard wood, your hands splayed across my hips trying to guide me—slow me down so you wouldn't come too quickly. I'd curl my fingers into your chest, throw my head back, close my eyes, and say every fucking dirty thing I knew. "Oh Daddy, this your pussy. You like watching my tits bounce up and down while I ride you. I like tasting my pussy juices on your dick. Where you want to come? On my face?" (When we'd be done, showered, and eating cheap take out, I'd walk around wearing one of your old shirts with the most impish grin spread across my face. Yeah, I was that whore you fucked in the bedroom.) Those were the salad days of our fucking. There weren't any kids, dental bills, and retirement funds to think about. It was just you and me, and the future that was laid in front of us.

We are in our 40s now and married close to twenty years. We talk seriously about divorce now. You deal with me with, at best, indifference. And at worst, undisguised resentment over something I did that I didn't know you resented. I'm angry all of the time. Medicated to the eye balls with Mommy's Little Helpers so I don't bawl at work or freak out at the children or maybe hit you with the frying pan. But something inside keeps me from letting you go completely. I keep waiting for the awesome make up sex that got us through some of our worst fights long ago.

You'd pull my sleeping body close to you in the middle of the night. You would drop a hand between your thighs and stroke me, while you'd kiss me along my neck and ears until I woke up. You'd whisper my name and I'd grab your hand, and I'd apologize. It didn't matter whose fault it was. I just wanted to get past this terrible moment and surrender to you. You would start it with a kiss. I'd continue it with an apology. Next you were grinding your erection against my plump bottom. I'd moan and you would sink into my wetness telling me how good I felt, how good of a wife I was, and how your whole life was mine to keep. I remember one such passionate making up when you rested your head on my belly and cupped my pussy in your hand. "This is mine." You said and gave my pussy a possessive squeeze. "My whole future is here." You said and kissed my belly. "This is my future." You squeezed me again and planted another kiss just below my navel. We were in our 30s and I believed you. Although experience has taught me differently, I hate myself because I still think I am your future.