There was no virgin pain as he dug his fingers into my hips and slid himself fully inside of me. I stood on my tiptoes to give him the perfect angle. He started sliding his cock in and out, in and out. My big boobs swayed beneath me with every thrust.
“Oh… my… god…”
My words were carried on gusts of hot breath.
“Faster… harder… more…”
Tanner was hammering into me now. My tits swayed. I moaned and called his name as the orgasm hit.
“I’m... cumming… oh… my… god…”
I squeezed my eyes tightly together and sucked in a long breath as I came. Tanner’s cock plunged in and out of me until I begged him to stop. I felt his touch drift away from my body like a warm passing wind.
I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror, which was fogged up from the steaming water that was about to overflow the tub.
I blinked back to reality and gazed down at myself.
My left hand was clutching my breast. My breast was red from the hard rubbing and squeezing. My nipple stood on end, a dark crimson thimble in a sea of white.
I was standing with my knees bent.
The fingers of my right hand were buried inside my cunt.
My hand was drenched to the wrist from the orgasm I’d given myself.
I let my fingers slide out of me and braced my palms on the counter.
I took in a long, deep breath, then let it out slowly.
It all seemed so real that I turned to look around the bathroom, as if I’d find Tanner standing there.
Sadly, I was alone.
I turned off the water and lowered myself into the steaming tub.
I closed my eyes and smiled as the hot water engulfed me.
I picked up the bar of soap from the edge of the tub and rubbed it between my legs as the fantasy began to replay in my mind.
This time I was a spectator rather than a participant.
You know how they say that if you lose the use of one of your senses, it makes the other senses heighten?
Like, if you lose your sense of sight, your senses of smell and hearing and taste and touch grow stronger?
The same was true when you were a virgin.
When you’d never had a real man inside you, your imagination intensified until it became as vivid as the real thing.
Monday morning, 7:45 AM.
I noted the time because Henry was supposed to pick me up for our trip to Tucson with the Goldman team around eight-thirty. I had my assistant pack a bag over the weekend and it was sitting next to the front door, ready to go.
That was my motto: always be prepared.
Or have an assistant prepare it for you.
I had time to kill, so I fixed a cup of coffee using the twenty-thousand-dollar brewing machine Henry had convinced me to buy during a business trip to Italy a few years back.
It was supposedly the best coffee brewing system on the planet. The coffee beans the system also supposedly brewed the best cup of coffee on the planet. I think the beans were imported from the deepest jungles of Columbia and had been shit through a tiger’s ass or some such nonsense.
I didn’t get the big deal. The coffee it brewed was mediocre at best. It had the consistency and the smell of burnt ink. It certainly was not a twenty-thousand-dollar cup of coffee. The hundred dollar Keurig in my office made better coffee.
Henry said I had the palette of a caveman.
I knew a shitty cup of coffee when I tasted it.
I kept meaning to buy a Starbucks franchise and install it downstairs off the lobby (I own this building and live in the penthouse), but I kept forgetting to call Starbucks CEO Howard Schulz to make the deal.
I picked up my iPhone and spoke into it.
“Siri, remind me to put a Starbucks in the lobby downstairs.”
Siri confirmed my brilliance and I set the phone aside.
I set the mug of steaming coffee on the kitchen table and fired up my laptop. I logged into Facebook and tapped my fingers on the keys.
I ignored the 1,835 notifications and 2,018 messages that flashed at the top of the screen.
The truth is, I hate fucking Facebook and only use it to dig up dirt about people I might be doing business with.
Or people that simply fascinated me.
People like Candice Carlson.
I was constantly amazed at some of the things people posted on Facebook. They just put it out there for all the world to see, without any concern of consequences.
Hey look, here’s a shot of you getting shit-faced drunk at a bachelor party.
Hey look, here’s a shot of you in the bathroom with a naked hooker from the party.
Hey look, here’s you getting a lap dance from said hooker.
Oh look, look, look! Here’s a picture of you doing a line of some white powder that looks an awful lot like coke off the hooker’s tit!
Ah, finally, the coup de grace… here’s a picture of you passed out drunk in the hotel room naked and covered in magic marker.