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From: AnneArbor@hotmail.com
Subject: {ASS/M} "The Good Girl" by Anne Arbor (MF)
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The Good Girl
      by Anne Arbor

   I lifted my head off the mattress just enough to glance at the
bedside clock.  11:25.  Shit.  He was keeping a tight grip on my hips
as he stabbed into me, my ass angled rudely high, my face scrubbing
against the sheets, my arms stretched above my head, elbows slightly
bent to absorb the shock.  I pressed my palms against the headboard
to push back against his relentless pistoning that was threatening to
slide me up the mattress until my head thumped against the wood.

   I wiggled my hips at my husband, trying to nudge his arousal
forward.  He had already jabbed my cervix three times, two of them
hard enough to really hurt, and I knew that after twenty minutes of
this pounding, and most of it in this doggie position, I'd be hurting
in the morning.  My demanding three-year-old climbing into our bed at
six a.m. wasn't going to allow for much sleep.  Again.

   To make matters worse, I was beginning to dry out, and Josh wasn't
slowing down.  I was already feeling abraded.  And that damn thumb of
his was prodding at my asshole again.  That seemed to be his new thing
of late.  It was time to finish.

   "Baby," I cooed to him, "lie on top of me, baby.  Make me come."

   Josh grunted and, thankfully, mercifully, his fat cock dragged
back and felt as if it was pulling me inside-out.  I couldn't take
much more of this.  I rolled on my back, spread my legs wide and
welcoming and smiled up at him, my arms outstretched.  "C'mere,
baby."

   He loomed over me and quickly rediscovered my cunt.  Two short
strokes later and he was back into his rhythm, full-length tip to
root plunges.  I closed my eyes and hung on.  His hairy, muscled body
pressed heavily on my breasts and belly, making it difficult for me
to move -- I dug my heels into the mattress as best I could, trying
to find some leverage to begin my matching hip thrusts.  Those always
seemed to work.

   "Oh, baby, that's so good," I murmured into his ear.  I began to
dig my fingers into his shoulder blades on every driving inward
thrust.  "Make me come, baby.  Make me come."  Josh was grunting from
his effort.  His plum-sized testicles thumped against my butt on
every instroke.  The friction was getting worse.  It was time to
finish him.

   I sped up my breathing, then began to moan, at first softly, then
progressively louder, and my fingernails clawed in deeper and deeper.
Move the hips, I reminded myself, keep moving the hips.  "Oh baby
baby so good baby baby," I groaned at him.  He was breathing harder
himself.  That was good.

   I could always read my husband, but in truth he wasn't a very
difficult book.  He was a patterned lover.  Predictable in his
aggressive, athletic movements, slow in his arousal.  But now I knew
he was just about ready to explode.

   "Oh baby baby so good."  I began to gasp.  It was time.  "Oh baby
oh baby oh fuck oh fuck me fuck me."  I undulated my hips as fast and
furiously as I could, whipping him forward, now gouging my
fingernails in and not backing off.  When I felt that telltale surge
of rigidity, I just drove him over the finish line with a high-
pitched squeal and as much clenching of my vaginal muscles as I could
manage.

   It worked.  It always worked.  Josh exhaled a throaty groan and
jammed his ramrod into me and held himself there, his body stiff and
paralyzed.  He had nicked my cervix yet one more time, but I just
ignored it and kept doing my hip thrusts.  I didn't want any retreat
at this point.  Up, up, up and then I felt the first big jerking jump
of his penis.  He exhaled a wet, wheezy moan.  Up, up, up.  I knew I
could milk him like this, knew how much he loved to have me keep
sliding myself up and down his cock while he was frozen motionless
and spurting.

   He was definitely spurting.  "Come for me, baby, come for me," I
urged his ear.  He pulsed again and again.  "Oh that's a good boy, oh
so good, squirt it in me, baby."  I worked his throbbing erection
with my sheath.  I was slippery again, bathed with his white balm.
And when he could again move his hips, I stopped my own thrusts and
let him take over, stroking himself through his creamy release.  I
wanted him to empty those big balls of his.  I was going to be too
sore to repeat all this tomorrow night.

   He was done.  I always looked forward to this time, with its
gentle kisses and whispered sweet nothings and the languid, sloppy
connection of relaxed bodies.  He wasn't pounding me now.  He was
thanking me.  He twitched inside me.  I squeezed back.

   It was funny, I thought to myself, how much control I had over his
orgasm.  And how little control he had over mine.

   After the kisses and whispers, after his spent erection had shrunk
back to merely meaty flesh, after he had slipped away to his side of
our king-size bed, I waited patiently for his soft snores before I
again spread my legs and began to touch myself.

   I was raised to be a Good Girl, lectured from birth to keep my
hands away from Down There, to resist temptations, to have control.
To walk down the aisle in a white gown and then, on my wedding night,
to give my virginity to my husband.  No one prepared me for the shock
of learning that my best friend in high school, my Freshman college
roommate, had gotten herself pregnant during the summer after that
first year.

   In the Fall I found myself with a new roommate, who startled me
with her ritual of nightly masturbation.  I would feign sleep and
watch her in the dark.  She was always so quiet, so restrained, even
when I could hear the liquid sounds coming from between her legs and
the suppressed quickening breaths rushing through her nostrils.  At
the end, when her knees would rise to form twin islands of bedsheets,
her breathing would halt for a few curiously delicious seconds as her
head arched back into the pillow, her mouth open in a silent scream.

   Even when sweet Barry patiently seduced me that winter, I held
onto the essence of my virtue.  Though his mouth would nuzzle my hard
brown nipples, from one to the next and back again, and his fingers
would separate my slick pink petals and tease life into my clitoris
and slip delicately into my vagina, I never gave him my pleasure, my
soul.

   And even when his persistence finally found his nakedness pressed
against mine, and his horny hardness rubbed forever up and down my
slit to spread me wide and wet, I would only allow him to spurt his
sticky white lava across my belly.  I was a Good Girl when I
protested his gentle exploratory nudges into my folds.  We would
argue, he would plead, I would resist.  I never let him hold onto
those temporary territorial advances into my intimate inner place.

   We were doomed, he and I, as he grew tired of the persuasion and I
grew tired of the struggle, and when we parted ways I knew I was
right.  I had recaptured my lost territory.  And then I met Josh.

   Josh was handsome and fun and friendly.  He swept me off my
rebounding feet, both figuratively and literally.  The four months of
persistent grinding forward march that was Barry was equaled in a
two-week blitz that was Josh.  But his frightening erection wasn't
content to languish on my belly.  Before I could explain I was a Good
Girl he was inside me, painfully stuck halfway and shuddering his
seed.  Only then did I surrender the rest of my insides, his path
made slippery by the very stuff that produced Jason, one dress, one
aisle, and nine months later.

   The Good Girl became the Good Wife.  "Keep him satisfied, and he
won't wander," my mother had whispered to me.  I did the best I could
do.  I gave him my body throughout my pregnancy, up until the last
two months when I feared that his length would damage the baby.
Almost four long, exhausting months with only my clumsy hands and
inexperienced mouth, then on to a normal married life, this time
blessedly protected by the Pill.

   No one told me it would be like this, though.  Not my mother, not
my friends.  My son and my husband were both insatiable, each in his
own way.  The Good Wife and the Good Mother were always busy.

   And now when my solitary right forefinger traced slow figure-
eights on my clitoral shaft, I was careful to stay away from the
electric sensitivity of the exposed tip.  It was a languid rise I
sought, for I rejoiced in the journey, not solely in the arrival.  My
finger dipped periodically into the oozing reservoir below to
retrieve its soothing treasure.  I was still sore.

   But this night, the same as countless other nights, the essence I
spread across my plump lips and around my increasingly twitchy clit
did not remind me of my sleeping husband, nor did it remind me of
Barry and what he would leave on my belly.  Rather, it evoked
memories of that new roommate and her private pleasure.

   My finger was joined by a second, then a third, and with their
slippery quickening pressure the controlled figure-eights became
crude zeroes, then frantic sloppy diagonals which shouldered aside my
fat lips to focus on the upthrust bud that was my core.  And when my
orgasm burst forth and captured me, only then did I allow myself to
remember that penis twitching its white streams inside me, inside the
Good Girl who wasn't me.


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