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He was always buying me little things. That was how i knew we were serious, that it was more than just The Sex.

Submitted:Jul 28, 2011    Reads: 2,183    Comments: 6    Likes: 3   


He was always buying me little things.

That was how i knew we were serious. That first thing he bought me was his way of telling me that it was more than just The Sex.

It's easy enough to take off your clothes and just go through the motions.

I've done it before, you know. And they all respond pretty much the same, really.

You just need to know how to hold one, where to lick it, and when.

But then he bought me something, and i felt myself shifting inside, felt my life changing course, altering to follow his star.

'Now you won't lose your place ever again,' he breathed into my ear as i unwrapped the box. It was far too big for its weight, the box. For a moment i'd thought he'd bought me a GPS or something.

But it wasn't a GPS. It was a bookmark.

The previous time we'd been together, he'd dropped by my place unexpected, and i'd been all snuggled in bed, in my jimjams, reading a book. I'd answered the door, and there he was, all smile and lust.

We barely made it to the bed. He still had his shirt and tie on, and his socks, and i only managed to pull my jimjam pants all the way off at the very last minute, just before he lifted me up and threw me onto the mattress.

Once he was inside me, he popped my jimjam top open, sending buttons flying, because he loves my breasts. He likes to see them wobbling all about my chest as he rocks and rolls me to orgasm.

I was surprised by the feel of his Italian silk tie as it slid about on my breasts. I liked the way it was slippery yet firm.

After we'd both come, me first, and then him, we parachuted down from that high plateau and then got up on our feet and put the place back into order, like air-crash survivors picking through the wreckage.

My book, arrived just that morning from The Book Depository, was underneath the bed.

'You made me lose my place with all that incredible sex of yours, mister!' i scolded him.

He said he was sorry, and the next time i saw him, two days later, he gave me the bookmark.

It was the Birth of Venus. The one of the woman standing on a clamshell in the ocean, surrounded by naked babies and naked men blowing conch-shells and naked women with envious eyes. The Bouguereau one, not the other one.

I told him it was wonderful, and perfect for me.

He told me that i was wonderful, and perfect for him.

'And you've got much better tits than Venus,' he assured me.

Because he loves my tits.

After that, he kept bringing me little things like that, things that showed he not only enjoyed sliding into my various openings in novel and surprising ways, but that he was also into the person i was.

Me. Myself.

Having great tits meant that i'd had a lot of men who were into sliding into me, not always in novel or surprising ways, either. And none of them before him gave the slightest indication that they knew who i was, that i was more than just some arbitrary set of curves and holes, easily replaced by another set with the same shape and size and skillset.

It was so wonderful to know that he treasured me for me, not for my tits, or for how adeptly i gave head, or because i cooked so well.

Me. Myself.

One night, late, he came in bearing a present, held out before him like an enormous pizza box.

'Put this on,' he smiled.

The box was huge. It was the size of a lounge chair seat. Bigger, actually, since i tried to put it on the lounge chair seat and it wouldn't fit. I had to rest it on the floor.

The satin bow reminded me of his satin tie. I undid it with a snap and lifted the lid off the box.

Inside was a set of the most beautiful French lingerie i'd ever seen. The swing tags had little Eiffel Towers on them and all, to show that they were authentically French, shipped direct from the City of Love.

It made sense that the first big thing that he bought for me would be something to put those tits of mine in, the ones he loves so much.

But i was almost a little disappointed that it was for my tits, actually, since the other, smaller presents had been things that acknowledged my life as a reader, as a photographer, as a fan of blues and jazz.

I thought about it, though, as i slipped out of my dressing gown, under which i was stark naked in hopeful anticipation, and i realised that this was my opportunity to give him a present back, to acknowledge him for who he was.

The lingerie fitted me like body butter.

'How do i look?' i asked as i finished sliding the garter belt into place.

'Totally fuckable,' he said, his voice catching a little as he pulled his silk tie undone.

'No,' i said, gently. 'Leave your tie on, please.'

I undressed him slowly, kissing down the length of his strong, tanned legs as they appeared from inside his Hugo Boss trousers, caressing his stiffening prick inside his Calvin Klein Y-fronts, slipping his Boss suit jacket off but leaving his Van Heusen business shirt on, to go with that tie.

He lifted me up and carried me to the bedroom. He lay me down carefully this time, and i squirmed excitedly there in that beautiful lingerie, like a kitten that's been put on its back. I wanted him inside me, hot and hard, and i didn't have to wait long for it.

He pushed down his CKs, and his prick lobbed huge and ready toward me, poking through the gap in his shirt front, the tie pointing down to it like a warning sign: caution, huge cock! He climbed onto the bed and placed his lips gently on my vulva, blowing warm air onto me through the silken lycra of the brand new panties.

I felt that familiar melting feeling inside my girl parts, and hoped that my wetness wouldn't stain the panties.

But then he pulled them to one side, exposing my snatch to the air and to his prick. In a single movement he entered my pursed lips, and i could feel him surging inside me.

He seemed to grow larger with each thrust.

I was sure i was growing wetter with each thrust.

My boobs, which he loves, were behaving themselves more than usual. The French brassiere was holding them demurely in place, but still allowing them to bobble about over the top, an effect he enjoyed as much as their wanton disporting when unsaddled.

He paused in his powerful, slow thrusts to lean forward and kiss the skin on my decolletage, raising the tiny hairs with the slight cool wetness of his lips.

When he blew gently on those raised hairs, i felt my nipples become ridiculously large inside all that imported lycra, and i felt my petite mort growing hugely inside my plexus.

When i came, i came so hard that i nearly bit through my tongue.

I'm afraid that i grunt when i orgasm. Grng! Grng! Grrrng!

I've always wished i could recite poetry or something at that moment, but there it is.

Seconds later, i felt his ejaculation pulsing into me.

We collapsed together.

Once we'd regained our composure, we set about the delicate task of extricating me from all that expensive French fabric without getting cum stains in it.

That task accomplished, he stripped naked and we showered together.

He fucked me again, standing up, in my little shower. Taking me from behind.

I thought that the glass was going to break.

Imagine explaining that to the paramedics!

In bed, i sucked him off goodnight, even though he was spent. He did come, but there was nothing much left to swallow.

I turned the bedside light out, and he got up to look for his iPhone. He needed it for the alarm, he said, as he had a big meeting in the morning he didn't want to be late for.

After a search, he realised that he'd left it in his car. I told him he could use my alarm, save him going down now.

We snuggled and fell asleep inside each other's breathing.

In the morning, i woke up early, before the alarm.

As a special treat, i decided to get him his iPhone. I put on my dressing gown and fished his keys out of his discarded trousers.

I padded down to the underbuilding carpark, not really caring if i met another tenant while in a state of post-coital half-dress. They'd think things, for sure, but if those things were right, then did it matter?

I had a man who loved me, and only me, for precisely who i am.

What could a little raised eyebrow do to spoilt that?

I blipped open his Bimmer, and looked all through the console for his iPhone. Not there, not under the seat, not in the glovebox.

I clacked open the boot, figuring it had to be in there. He was too smart to leave his iPhone in plain sight anyway, although why he'd put it in the boot rather than take it upstairs with him made no sense.

In the boot, i found two huge boxes. Identical to the one upstairs. Even the same satin ribbon.

Looks like i had some more torrid lingerie sex ahead of me!

Unable to resist, i undid the bow on the top box, and took off the lid.

It was exactly the same set of lingerie as the one upstairs. Exactly the same.

I shuffled the boxes and opened the other one.

Again. Exactly the same.

I thought, maybe he's bought a size either side, just in case the European fittings are tricky. So i checked.

Exactly the same size, both of them.

This didn't make sense.

Then i heard his iPhone message ring. Xylophone. I found it at the back of the boot, behind the boxes. He must have dropped it there when he put the boxes in and forgot about it.

I picked the iPhone up. On the off-chance, i swiped the unlock.

There was no lock code. There were two messages.

One was from someone called Chandel.

The message said she was looking forward to getting her present bright and early this morning, whatever it was, and that he was such a tease. Maybe, this Chandel thought, she'd tease him, and see how he liked it.

There was an attached photo.

It was clear from the attached photo that Chandel wasn't a kindly old Aunt. That this wasn't some silly misunderstanding.

At least one of the sets of lingerie must have been for this Chandel, and, judging by the photo, she could have really used some underwear right about then.

I didn't read the other message.

I tossed the iPhone into the lingerie box and closed the boot.

I blipped the Bimmer locked, and walked the long, slow climb back upstairs.

I took off my dressing gown and climbed back into bed.

He rolled over in his sleep and put his arm across me. His hand found one of my boobs, the boobs that he loves so much, and gave it a squeeze.

Then i remembered. He'd told me dozens of times how much he loves my boobs, but he'd never once actually told me that he loved me.

Me. Myself.

How had i missed that?

He stirred awake, and, with a gentle shift of his weight, he deftly slid his morning erection into me.

I was still trying to figure out how i'd missed all this, when he squirted his jizz inside of me.

'You OK?' he asked. 'You didn't come.'

'I'm fine,' i said. 'Haven't you got that meeting?'


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