Five was not like the others. Five was two hours deep, on his bed, on my stomach, face down, with one of his hands spread flat between my shoulder blades pressing me into the mattress and the other one holding my hips up off the sheet.
He f****d me from behind, slow, deep, no hurry at all, and every stroke dragged the whole length of him along the front wall of my cunt so that I could feel all of it — every inch in, every inch out — and the sound of it was wet and loud and the headboard knocked the wall in a lazy little rhythm and my t**s were squashed under me and my n*****s were sore from the sheet and I had my face turned sideways on the pillow just to breathe.
"Count for me," he said.
"What?"
"Every stroke. Count!”
"One. Two—oh—three—"
He kept it slow enough that I could count. D
