Had he really just done that? Had he really just come in here—to my bedroom—fucked my face, eaten my pussy, then pounded into me hard with my legs practically behind my own head? And then, had he really come all over me like he was marking his territory or something? Had he? The question was rhetorical; I knew he had, as I was still wearing his come. I stared at the door he had just walked through, bare assed, semi-hard dick bobbing with each step he took. I waited to see if he was going to come back, hoping he would, but when I heard him go down the stairs, I knew he was done with me. Feeling a heavy sense of loss, I reminded myself of what this was…what I was. It was just fun. I couldn’t be what Maxwell needed; I would never be anything more than a convenient plaything when he stopped in to visit his friend. Before I started to feel too sorry for myself, I thought back to the four glorious orgasms he’d given me.
