I have never kept the same lover for as long as I’ve been with him, but I can’t imagine ever getting bored of his excitement or the warm attention he always has for me.
I reach around him and give his dick a few decisive tugs. That’s enough to coax out a grunt of ecstasy, stiff cock throbbing in my hand as he comes, all trembles and a pulsing hole.
I love that feeling around my dick even though I’m done. Never gets old.
He told me through his drawings just how attractive he finds me still, but with his body reacting like this, I need no further proof. I might be ruined in many ways, but he sees me for my soul.
Is it strange that I have such sappy thoughts when I’m balls-deep inside him?
Might be because I love him. His body, but also his heart and mind. He’s a little deranged, obsessive, but then again so am I. It doesn’t undermine any of the times when he’s sweet and loving.
“Fuuuck, that feels so good,” Victor whines, rubbing his cheek against the counter and struggling to catch a breath.
My hands are so much better now, and I take pleasure in squeezing his chin as I kiss his shoulders, waiting out the brief moments of fatigue that threaten to cut my legs from under me.
“What do we say?” I tease, licking his hair off his sweaty nape like a cat grooming its mate.
“Thank you, Seva,” he mumbles.
I’m still not over the burns, the scars they’ve left behind, but I feel attractive each time I see myself in the mirror of Victor’s eyes. All those years alone here, I fantasized about the life I would lead once I disposed of my enemies. How I would emerge from the deadly cocoon of this house to lead a glamorous life of luxury with anew man at my side each week and turning heads in the streets. Now, I only need Victor’s affection.
I sense it in his every gentle touch, in how he puts ointment on my burns, brushes my hair, and makes food for me. Even his words of encouragement have been so welcome when I was throwing fits about my work, about struggling with the brushes, or the worry that the way I see color has changed. I might have felt frustrated in the moment, but I appreciate his patience now.
He doesn’t just give me platitudes either. He listens and speaks thoughtfully about the changes I’m facing.
And I love him for it.
I really, truly love him in a way I’ve never loved another man
“Don’t move,” I tell him, then slowly pull out, watching his pucker close, as if desperate to keep in the whole load. I can’t help myself and stroke his buttocks once more before reaching for a roll of kitchen towels.
We’re both panting as I clean us, but then he rolls against the counter, and I kiss him, enclosing his small, warm form in my arms. Even now, he’s so gentle when placing his hands over my injured shoulders.
Victor smiles as we kiss, wild hair tickling my cheeks. I have truly never seen a prettier picture. I don’t think I could deny him anything right now.
“Satisfied?” he whispers, squinting slightly.
“You have never left me unsatisfied,” I whisper, tasting his lips once more. Everything feels so easy when he’s around. As though I can have a full life even if we confine ourselves to this house and never see other people again.
He hasn’t asked to leave, nor has he taken advantage of my state to do so. It’s a reminder that I have denied him what he asked for. All because I spent years designing a house for perfect safety. In the end, even that was amirage when the worst combination of circumstances occurred.
I wouldn’t have burned if I’d turned on the sprinklers sooner, but I couldn’t bear making the choice of damaging my paintings. For that, I suffered even more.
So even if the house was infallible, I wasn’t.
“Speaking of which, how about I make you some food? The carpenter is coming soon, and I don’t want you left with crackers and canned tuna.”
Because I’ll be retreating to the panic room. It used to be my safe space, and now it’s a painful reminder of just how trapped I am in this house. At least I trust him to handle things I can’t bring myself to deal with.
“You’re spoiling me,” I hum, tickling him with a kiss to the crook of his shoulder.
“Always. You’re never getting rid of me. You’d have to throw me down the well of the dead.”
A little nickname he gave the shaft down which we threw the many bodies we had to dispose of.
“You’d have a lot of company in there. Wouldn’t that be fun?” I ask, trailing kisses down his shoulder. Ah, I’ve never met another man this addictive.
When he goes to the fridge, I follow him, never taking my hands off him.
