After getting half-undressed in my kitchen, we took our act to my bedroom. She didn't shower -- I guess she was getting too drunk. But that was a shame because her vagina had that end-of-the-tour-of-duty odor to it, the butt grease odor that worn-in whores get. It spoiled an otherwise cheerful night.
Her breasts were small and not too squishy. Her ass was also small, and though squishy, it fit into my hand. She rolled some kind of super-small, ridiculous Soviet condom onto my unit and started to blow me, but we had to take the thing off and put on a Durex. I was kind of hoping I'd get a condomless blowjob, but I wasn't forceful with her. I'd enjoyed her company, and the power I had over her time with me, too much to spoil it with a change in the tempo.
She wanted to fuck. "I can't wait," she said. She rolled onto her back, but I pulled her on top of me and told her to sit on me. Her vagina was wet and tight enough that I didn't feel like I was getting the old "hot dog in a hallway" snapper that every john dreads. She didn't need to lube with a whore swipe.
Lara was really enjoying herself on top of me, or at least faking pretty convincingly that she was. Her pleasure was rooted in believing that I was interested in her stories about herself, which I was, slightly. I was trying to feel some kind of genuine interest or make some connection, or trying to feel like I should try to make a connection, but it was all fake and all internalized -- trying to conjure up genuine interest in Lara's story was contrived in a ridiculous way, like faking my own orgasm while masturbating.
My aunt once said to me, while pointing to her baby grandson, "They're nothing to me until they're at least four or five years old." That's sort of how I feel about humans: they're nothing to me until I've clocked so many hours with them, a lot of hours, hours usually spaced over a matter of years.
Lara pulled me on top of her and pulled her legs back. I felt like I was going to cum too quickly and I didn't want to, so I slowed it up.
"Come on!" she said. "I want it. Let's go, come on!"
I started to go, but all the lust that had been missing suddenly caught up with me. So I rolled over again and pulled her on top of me. This time she wouldn't wait. She started to piston-fuck me, so I figured the hell with it, I was paying, who am I trying to impress? I grabbed her small ass and used it like a giant block of sandpaper to sand down my whole pelvic region. Suddenly I exploded, and she made sounds as if she did too. I don't know -- of all the ego things, getting a whore off is just not something that makes me feel like more of a man. I'm not sure how much she faked it, both for my sake and for hers, but when she fell on top of me her heart was beating as hard and fast as a mongoose's.
But the best part of our evening was to come when she rolled onto her back. After a few deep breaths she asked me what time it was. Already after two in the morning.
"Oh. It's already time for me to go," she said. "I should get ready to leave."
She wrote down her phone number, but as soon as she handed it to me I knew I wouldn't call her. She deserves at least a pozdravlenie on Women's Day. But I know I won't do it. Which makes me just another traitor in her life.