Mr. Poole

She never left them because they didn’t have enough money, or they couldn’t get it up or they chewed with their mouth open. She didn’t fall out of love when they looked at other women or tracked mud and shit through the house. She didn’t foster resentment over things like halitosis or dirty socks or internet porn addictions.

She wasn’t like that.

The women who knew her chastised her for putting up with those things. They were all divorced or single or feminists, though. She always wondered about that. If you know so much about relationships and men, why aren’t men falling over themselves to be with you? But it never mattered, her opinion.

He was different, though. His name was Ethan Poole. He was short and warm, round and funny, and had a pleasantly handsome face. And last night, he’d ‘failed her.’ Or that’s what he said. She had simply smiled and kissed his face and put his hand on her breast while she finished what he’d started. Afterwards, he’d held her close and breathed into her neck and said he thought he might love her.

She’d been honest with him about her track record. She thought it made him nervous. But she told him all those things, and had left it at that, that none of those were reasons in her book to give up on someone you loved.

“What if I can never satisfy you again?”

She’d told him not to be ridiculous. Not to put such a narrow definition on satisfaction.

“I think men and women are very different,” he said thoughtfully. She agreed.

This morning, she stood at the sink, her hands in the dishwater, and she heard him come in, felt him come close, felt his arms come around her. He teased her neck, from earlobe to nape, with his lips and tongue, and she involuntarily melted against him, her fingers tightening around the edge of the basin.

Then his hands were on her breasts, squeezing, pinching, stroking, pulling. She moaned and rocked her head back on his shoulder. “You like that?” he whispered in her ear.

One hand traveled downward, beneath the elastic band of her pajama bottoms, and his fingers were quick to find her, to slide almost roughly, without preamble, against her clit. Just like he’d watched her do a hundred times. He worked her hard and fast, his mouth still on her neck, and his other hand still fondling her tits. Her breathing grew shallower as she reached for the climax he was offering, and then his fingers were sliding in deep, pressing forward, and he was whispering, “Come for me, Beautiful.”

She exploded, felt the sweet release as she filled his palm with fluid, felt it run down her legs, heard his murmured approval while he held her there, too weak to stand on her own. And when she’d reclaimed her voice, while he took a towel and cleaned her up and kissed her mouth with such tenderness, she said to him, “This is why I’ll never leave you, Mr. Poole.”

510 wds

FFM 2015 Day 5

10 thoughts on “Mr. Poole

      1. Yes you should, and I am sure it sells better, or at least it might get much higher traffic. People just love that.

        There is one here in Israel who build a whole career on publishing (in the right place and probably time) an article called “how not to piss off our clitoris”, followed by a guide for woman on how to give a good blowjob.

        Liked by 1 person

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