The same acts. The same words. The same expression etched on his face. It always starts with her playful request:“Fuck me before she comes home.”P...rhaps if she’d added a question mark, he would have refused. She hates him for that: for not refusing. That dark-eyed guy with a pressing erection and strong, broad hands. His fault. He shouldn’t have smiled at her. He shouldn’t have stood so close when she brushed past him each night in the hall. He shouldn’t have embraced such a fucking cliché –. “Deeper; wider; one more. How many? One more. Push”. I had him pushing four fingers into me, getting them almost to their end. I tried hard, stretching myself, holding his hand and pushing it hard into me until it couldn’t go any further. I had an urge to take more into me, be open, bigger; bigger than all of them! He slid his hand out and stood up. “Wait there a minute” he said, and walked around the couch. He reappeared a moment later with a glass drink bottle and knelt between. More

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