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“He was always all about himself. He never considered that I was there. For all he cared, I was just a receptacle for his use.”Abby looked at our reflection in the bathroom mirror. We were hugging like teenagers, but she had her hand on Mr. Johnson, slowly stroking me up and down, while I ran my hands over her flanks, enjoying the soft skin and wonderful sensations. “Daniel would be so shocked if he saw me acting this way,” she giggled like a happy child.When we were clean, dry, and once more on the big bed, Abby pulled me down with her, saying, “It’s time, Mark. You’ve been wonderful, supportive and patient. But I want you. I want you inside me and I want to know what it feels like to make love with someone who loves me...”The moment that Mark had virtually lived for had finally arrived, and I slid home inside Abby’s wet, hot cavern. She twitched twice as Mr. Johnson made first contact. The amount of pressure I put against our contact was minima because I feared that she might. She stopped now, feeling herself in her clothes, the weight of her own breasts, the thick hunger in her vagina. When she turned her attention to her own body she realized that she felt terribly vulnerable and terribly sexy. It was a scary, edgy feeling she’d learned to savor. It made her feel peculiarly alive.She had never even bothered to create a conscious rationale for what she was doing. Since she had accidentally gotten off the subway at the wrong stop several weeks ago, she found that something about stalking these streets in the dark, dressed for sex, aroused her in a way that nothing else did these days. She didn’t examine the feelings, didn’t wonder at them. The dim corner of her mind that knew what brought her down here was not consulted; she simply didn’t want to know. She only knew that after her walk she would go home terribly stimulated and masturbate with the most obscene and degrading scenes going through her mind, and that she would have explosive orgasms, almost.