He continues fucking her. His arms are posted hard into the bed, holding him up above her. She lifts both of her legs and bends them back far, and as she does, he lifts up slightly and put his hands in the crocks of her knees, spreading her wide. The velvety sheen of sweat glazing her breasts and neck slowly fades, dries, and droplets of sweat from her belly fly up and clung to his forehead in small beads, before gradually diminishing, drawing back into his pores. He brings her spread legs together slightly, drapes them over his shoulders, and then leans gently into them, bending them back over her, pressing her knees almost to her shoulders. He shortens his thrusts, keeping himself mostly deep, rocking against her, and his mouth stretches into a smile. She withdraws her hand from her pussy, grabs her right breast and begins kneading and fondling it. He grabs her other breast and begins doing the same. She looks in his eyes and speaks to him firmly, something, and continues. Every Sunday after that, Paul and I fucked each other with our eyes and minds as we sat through one long drawn-out sermon after another. It was a good thing that I always read my husband’s sermons at home because otherwise I would never have been able to discuss them intelligently during coffee hour afterwards. I never heard a word of the sermon as it was being given. I don’t think that Paul ever did either. I wanted to fuck Paul for real in the worse way and I finally got the opportunity at Paul and Clair’s Christmas Party. I was very horny the night of Paul and Clair’s Christmas Eve party and I needed to get laid. I had spent the afternoon masturbating, thinking about Paul but masturbating has never satisfied me for long and lately all it seemed to accomplish was to make even hornier within minute of having an orgasm. I wanted to get laid and I wanted to get laid by Paul. Therefore, much to my husband’s disapproval, I wore a long sleeved, red velvet and marabous, off the shoulder.
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