Linda hated having to pretend, to fake something she didn’t feel, but she knew how he was—he’d just go on and on and on, till she wanted to scream, really, and not from any orgasm, either. So far as she could say, he was utterly tireless. Sometime, maybe, she’d wait him out, see how long he really could keep it up. All night wouldn’t surprise her. A month wouldn’t surprise her, actually.
She began to grunt and to groan, softly at first, and as if it were his cue, he picked up his tempo, driving harder and faster now. Usually, she would drag it out a little, she knew it made him happy when it lasted, but tonight she was tired and her back ached from stocking shelves at the 7-Eleven. She thrashed her legs and moaned, louder, and tightened her grip on his shoulders, and, finally, stiffened her body like an ironing board.
It worked. It always did. She didn’t know how he did it, holding himself at the ready the way he did, and then able to let go just like that. She thought there were probably a lot of men who would envy him. She knew he was proud of it. Probably, if you were a man, it was something to be proud of. Maybe there were women who would appreciate it more than she did. Her sister was proud of the way her Schnauzer would roll over or stand up on his hind legs when she told him to. It was just a matter of training, wasn’t it?
Maybe you’re just a bitch, she told herself, and did not have to fake a sigh of relief when he rolled himself off of her. |
