Married man couple dating woman
One afternoon, after he’d fallen into a deep post-sex slumber, I serviced myself with my second, third, and fourth orgasm beside him.
That was the first time I’d experienced such a level of both secrecy and shame.
I’m careful to keep my breath from becoming a pant, even as my pulse quickens, but this takes much concentration. I have masturbated in this way next to the sleeping bodies of all my serious, committed partners who came before my husband.
This orgasm is a controlled, measured, calculated experience.
He’ll think he doesn’t satisfy me, and men do not like feeling inadequate, especially when it comes to matters of the bedroom. We fucked all the time, but even still, I wanted more, something only I could give me.
In some cases, as expected, it was because I wanted more sex than they could give me.
Too much movement or sound will wake him, and to be found out for something like this is not just embarrassing but potentially destructive. Even worse, maybe he’ll finally say the words I’ve been waiting for him to say since I first told him that I am a sex addict. My college boyfriend, burgundy haired and tattooed, had the high sex drive typical of most nineteen-year-old males.
He knows about my extensive fluency in the hardcore categories of various porn sites.
He knows about the bad habit I used to have of hooking up with not-so-nice men because they were available and I was bored — and that I rarely used protection with any of them.
I made a promise to my husband and to myself, long before we were even wed, to be austerely honest.
He knows I’ve been a compulsive masturbator since I was twelve years old.
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He sees me and I see him seeing me and we are in new territory.