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From: Jonathan P <jonathanbareb@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} "Annie" {JonathanP} (MF, cheat)
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Date: Mon, 06 Dec 2010 17:10:04 -0500
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   Annie

   I'll begin right off by saying it.  The most concise, the most accurate
description of her is this: Annie was a great fuck.  "Oh, I _hate_ that
word!" she'd glower at me with fire in her eyes and a clenched jaw whenever
"Fuck!" happened to slip out of my mouth in a dispassionate moment, but the
description is nonetheless true.  It is a crude word, perhaps.  An
inadequate description, to be sure.  She's much more than a great fuck. 
But for those of you out there who've met an Annie, you know what I'm
talking about.

   And the irony is, despite the accuracy of the word, despite her
disapproving glares when she heard it, that very word would involuntarily
pass Annie's own lips when she was engaged in that very act.  It was the
sound most commonly hissed out just as her orgasm bursts out of her belly,
as her arched back stiffened and her fingernails clawed into my back or the
sheets, and her hips thrust toward mine in that frantic search for more
cock, more pressure, more something.

   In the beginning I was never quite sure why her husband ever let her out
of his sight, let alone let her out of his bed.  The usual reasons were
there, of course.  She was bored.  She felt unappreciated.  But it was also
true that her libido hummed along at 10,000 rpm, and she told me his idled
at 1500.  It was a bad match.  He couldn't accelerate his upward.  She
couldn't brake hers downward.  And she needed frequent tune-ups.

   That's where I came in.  Annie had been faithful for a few years, early
on in their marriage, but when she hit 30 and her libido notched upward to
yet a new level, her eyes wandered and her body followed.  From what Annie
tells me -- and I have no reason to disbelieve her -- I was number four. 
Four in four years.  The first was a divorced friend of her husband's, a
torrid three-month affair that she ended when he demanded that she leave
her husband.  The second was a fling with a man she met at a business
conference, two thousand miles from home.  Not long after that was number
three, a former boyfriend from her early twenties before she married. 
After six months of occasional encounters with him, she remembered why she
stopped seeing him twelve years before.

   I'd known Annie for almost a year before we became physically intimate.
She worked at the same company I did, a friend of a friend, and Annie was a
frequent face at Friday late-afternoon gatherings at the local watering
hole.  These were gatherings that often extended into the early evening. 
And on one of those evenings, fueled by moderate quantities of alcohol and
immoderate quantities of hormones, Annie and I adjourned to the back seat
of her Explorer that was tucked away in the far corner of a dark parking
lot.

   Ford calls it the "Explorer" for good reason.  We made out and squirmed
around and made out and groped each other and made out, and when it turned
out I was just too slow in getting my hand up her skirt and into her
panties, she impatiently guided me there.  That, as it turns out, was an
instant revelation.  Slipping my hand past Annie's soft, matted pubic hair,
her labia were distinctly swollen, and her cleft was flowing with slippery
juices that had soaked the crotch of her panties.  She panted with a
breathless urgency as my fingers sloshed around on her little ballerina
that was most definitely standing on its tiptoes to greet me.

   Annie came quickly that first time, quicker than any other woman I'd
ever known.  Her abdomen began to quiver and her hips rocked her pussy
against my fingers, her knees alternately squeezing together to trap my
hand and yawning open again to beg my fingers to resume their flickering.
Her shudders eventually stopped, but she clearly wasn't through with me. 
Her fingers found my zipper, had it down in a flash, and a decisive, small
hand dove in and wrapped around my shaft.

   That didn't last long.  Soon she had both hands working on my belt
buckle.  My own hands were otherwise engaged, I should explain.  One arm
was wrapped around her shoulders, and my other hand was busy between her
legs, having temporarily abandoned her now-ultra-sensitive clit to acquaint
myself with the glory of her vagina.  Annie was, however, quite capable of
managing, and before too long she was inching my trousers over my hips with
a minimum of grunting and effort.

   Annie's hand latched onto my cock once again, steering me like she was
docking a boat into a slip.  She slithered around on the Explorer's bench
seat to get on her back, pulled me on top of her, and wrapped those
muscular legs around my thighs and maneuvered me -- without any complaint
from me, mind you.  My cock brushed her open slickness and slid upward
across her clit, causing her to gasp and wriggle and realign us both. 
"Annie," I said, with a token cautious tone.

   "It's safe.  Do it!" That was all she said.  And with that, I retreated
my hips just enough and plunged forward, just as she released her grip on
my cock.  In an instant I was half inside her, her vagina like a silky
furnace, her fingernails digging into my asscheeks.  We were nose to nose
in the near darkness, inhaling each other's moist breath.  Then with a
second decisive push I buried my cock, my pubic bone mashed against hers,
my thighs lifting hers to aim her slippery little lovebox at just the right
angle to get in deep, feeling her snuggly kegels giving me quick embracing
clenches around the root of my shaft.

   How long was that first time?  I don't remember.  Ninety seconds?  Sixty
seconds?  Thirty?  Thinking back, it was all a blurry haze of lustful
driving thrusts and stretches and straining pushes, of my throbs and her
quivers, of gasps and groans and throat-constricted grunts.  Two bodies
locked together, squirming, all rutting rooting hyperventilating.  Feet
against the door, knees awkwardly repositioning on the bench seat.  Annie's
second orgasm peaked quickly and stayed there, her head jammed back against
the seat, her face scrunched up in a gorgeous agony of pleasure, her
breathing suspended, her whole body gloriously stiffened beneath me.

   And I just kept thrusting, pushing, fucking her, trying to prolong it
all, but I soon followed with my own climax.  "Here I come," I told her,
and then one final, embedding plunge of my cock into her sweet snatch and
just holding myself there, exhaling a timeless groan of pleasure, and I
emptied every last ounce of my juices in long, satisfying pulses, each met
by Annie with a sexy little whimper of recognition.

   For the next nine months the intensity only increased as we replaced the
dark confines of her Explorer with the more comfortable bed in my
apartment. I would fuck her with steady, full-length strokes in the
Missionary position, sometimes with her feet hooked together behind my ass,
sometimes with her legs raised Yoga-high, her calves next to my ears.  Or
Annie would straddle my hips, impaling herself on my curved erection and
grinding her pussy against me until the swelling roughness of her G-spot
rubbing against my shaft signaled her imminent climax.  Or she would be
face-down against the crisp sheets, her ass held high as my hands clutched
at her hips, and my cock driving again and again into her slick heaven.

   And each time Annie's wordless signs and moans and gasps became words.
"Do it," she would encourage, "Like that, do it." Or "You get me so wet" or
"Don't stop" or "Faster!" or "Harder!" Her words, her enthusiasm, would
fuel my passion, superheat my lust.  We would gyrate in unison, echoing raw
sexual excitement back and forth between us, quicker and quicker, in and
out, side to side, until Annie would let go and hiss that "Oh fuck oh fuck"
and explode, red-faced and holding her breath, and seconds later my own
climax matched hers, and she would exhale a loud "FUCK!" as I spurted my
juices.

   We didn't last.  As it turned out, she wasn't using any birth control at
all, other than the roll-the-dice rhythm method.  "I'm three weeks late,"
she told me one night as we cuddled in the afterglow of several intense
orgasms (five for her, three for me) that left me with empty balls and her
with an overflowing vagina.  And a week later, her voice on the phone spoke
with relief, "It's okay, my period started."

   We never again had sex together.  Her guilt about maybe-almost-pregnancy
and about her husband led to her try to repair their relationship.  Even
when that ultimately failed, I had moved on with another job and another
lover, and Annie decided to return to her East Coast roots and start fresh.
We shared a brief goodbye, a lingering hug and kiss, and all I had left was
a rush of memories that left me with a thumping heart and a thickening
erection.

   In the years afterward I pondered what it was about Annie that made her
so special.  I concluded it was many things.  She exuded a joy about sex
and an uninhibited delight in sharing the mutuality of it all.  She
radiated enthusiasm, without a doubt.  And there was always her awareness
of her body and how it was able to grant me pleasure, and her awareness of
my body and how much she enjoyed the pleasure she received from me.  She
was smart and funny and lusty.  She was a great fuck.



   jonathanbareb@hotmail.com
          

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