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I cried like a baby, grateful that there was no one to hear or see me.As I went into the house to refill my glass, I couldn’t help but stare longingly at the images of Claire in our family photos: Claire by herself, Claire with the girls, Claire with me. And now Claire was gone. Spending the night with the new man in her life, her muscular six-ft, five-inch African American lover, Jason.I felt a wave of depression surge over me at this thought, and suddenly the idea of ringing Claire came to me. I walked back out and looked at my phone, desperately wanting to call Claire, but also aware that this would make me look desperate and needy to her. I was literally being torn in two by the decision and my indecisiveness. In the end, however great the extreme pain I was in, I knew I couldn’t allow myself to look so weak and pathetic in the eyes and mind of the woman I loved. She was in the bed of a man who was a picture of masculine strength, if I wanted to win her back and keep her, there. " I liked to thinkthat he remembered my sitting on his cock while he pretended sleep on thesofa and judged this to be something I liked. Indeed, I did. Severaltimes, hunched over this way, I shot into the water as he probed my hotasshole and massaged my balls. I wanted to scream my enjoyment at thesetimes, but constrained my joy to a whimper and sigh as signs ofappreciation. I would always see his hard cock protruding from his boxershorts as well as visible wetness seeping through the left leg of hisshorts. When finished, we would always towel each other's back. Once, Isuggested rubbing some lotion on his back after a bath. He replied, "I wasgoing to ask you about that. Sometimes my back feels a little itchyafterwards." Then that became routine for him as well as me. We would goto his bed and he would lie on his stomach, a towel underneath him. Wewould both strip down to our shorts when massaging. Later this wouldchange. I would usually begin by massaging his upper torso. I would.
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