I lie awake staring at my ceiling fan. The blades spin and transform to a blur. My first thought is: how are there not hundreds of freak ceiling fan accidents a year? What is holding this thing together anyway? A couple of screws put together by a handy worker with no engineering degree? Perhaps he was skilled. I’m being unecessarily judgmental. My point is there’s not much standing between me and death-by-ceiling-fan. Even a rogue marshmallow launching at a high enough speed can kill you.
I roll over to my right side and slip my hand over the empty pillow next to me. He left 15 minutes ago. My pussy is still soaked from the multiple orgasms he gave me. I arch my back as I stretch out and spread my legs over the width of the bed. I’m naked, covered in bedsheets, and my body is happy. He fucks me like a girl should be fucked.
I met him at a hotel bar a year ago. Exactly where you think you’d meet a famous person. The secrets to life are hidden behind the word cliché; a mantra I like to follow. He was sipping on a whisky. Glass in right hand. Wedding ring on left. I was staying for a two day conference and craving a club sandwich. I was face deep into my first bite when I glanced to my left and saw him. I recognized him right away and within a matter of seconds, I had a fierce agenda item added to my night.
We kept in touch for months. Something you wouldn’t think would happen after a one night stand with a celebrity. I wasn’t anything special. I knew that. But I also knew if we crossed cities again he would be more than happy to play a few rounds. As luck would have it, he moved to my city a year later for his job.
We met up at my place most often. The duration of our rendezvous would never surpass a warm hello, a few rounds of sex and a casual goodbye.
Hello. He saunters in as I close the door behind him. My hair is in a loose bun. I have a casual white tee on, showing my midriff. My jeans stretched tight. You see the curve of my ass as I lean on the door. I twirl my hair playfully. I’m naturally turned on by his presence. He leans in. He conducts every movement with such……
I moan.
He has me from the moment he walks in the door. Panty soaked. I fumble over my words and make my way upstairs. He rips off my jeans and panties in one motion. His hands are manly and he is a savage. He grabs my bare ass. Skin on skin. Mouth to mouth. He pulls me into him as I sit on his cock. He doesn’t say a word but I can tell his cock needs to be inside me. He pulls my t-shirt down, drawing it past the cups of my bra, exposing my breasts. I breathe in. I need him inside me so badly.
Fuck me,
I say to him in between panting. He grabs his cock and places the tip inside me. I grab his back and push him in deep.
Fuck me,
I say louder. I’m about to reach my first climax. He delivers me multiple. I take my time making him cum because I know he loves watching me cum over him. I lean over so he hears my moans in his ear. Vibrating into his body. I feel goosebumps on his forearms as I stroke my hands over them.
His roster of women has likely been in the range of numbers considered baffling. This doesn’t intimidate me. Men like this look for variety. It’s never about the most beautiful or the best in bed. It’s about a different experience. A new one.
I am familiar with this type. It doesn’t make the journey after each encounter any easier for me. I tell myself certain things. Lies, I suppose. It’s amazing the things we try to tell ourselves about ourselves. I’m so confident in my manipulating skills that I actually believe I can fool myself. Foolish.
Typically when you need to get over someone you try to find someone better. The problem with sleeping with famous people is getting over them. Filling the void of VIP Whore is a tall order. You naturally want to achieve something greater as the next target. But how often do VIPs cross our paths? It’s almost like you’ve entered the self delusional state of fame yourself, and you’re in a perpetual state of staying relevant. This is a dangerous game.
I glance back up at my ceiling fan in a blur. I reach up and pull the string a notch. It slows down and the fan blows a breeze over my exposed legs and breasts. I feel safer now. I’ve minimized my risk of ceiling fan death.
Don’t be a fool though. There are possible rogue marshmallows spinning at high speeds. 4,000 mph straight at your heart = death by marshmallow.
