“I love you. I love you,” she said in a quivering, passionate voice.I didn’t know what to think or say. How could she love me? She was a whore getting me to spend money, and we got drunk and had wild passionate sex, but I also knew we bonded in a way that is rare, that it was more than fucking, and I could see through her efforts to seduce me, her sweet innocence and her desire to be more than an olive farmer’s daughter. She was an artist and ambitious to break out of the poverty and hard work of the farm, so she came when Paul called her to sell herself for money. She came so she could buy the sexy clothes and jewelry a young woman wants to feel alive, even though it was not enough to take away her yearning for a man who wanted her and loved her.Standing up, ready to leave, forcing her to release her arms, I pulled out my wallet and threw the money on the bed. She grabbed the money, stood up and threw it back at me, hitting my face. “I don’t want your money, I want you. Stay with. My back arches and my hips lift, my legs now wrapped around your waist, my body begging, desperate for yours, for that beautiful blue-veined cock I had the brief pleasure of knowing earlier. I note, with vague interest, that you are not dreaming of kissing me on the lips. Perhaps you have never had the pleasure of a mortal woman, or perhaps I am a prostitute or some other unfortunate creature clinging to the edges of human society, not deemed worthy of your kiss. It matters not to me, as another jolt of your now nearly painful want shoots through me, up my spine to rattle my brain, and I feel you forcing yourself into my swollen, tight, eternally wet and ready pussy. You begin fucking me with meaning now, slamming yourself again and again into my cervix, clearly wanting to fill my bedeviled womb with your seed. My fingernails dig into your back, leaving marks that you will never see, driving your lust on, heightening your need, and I feel you begin to tense up, my legs wrapping.
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