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She was barefoot. Her sandals dangled from long fingers. His large, square hand held hers and he marvelled at her beauty as the sun set, suffusing everything with a soft, rose light.The scene shifted. He saw their first home together. A Victorian terrace in a shabby side street. It had felt like a palace at the time. He saw himself coming through the front door and felt rather than saw her rushing to greet him, coltish, dizzy, in love. How happy she sounded recounting her day at the Estate Agents where she worked.They had celebrated each little victory, each milepost on the road to his success. She gave up her job, toyed with education but lacked the perseverance. She adapted well to leisure.He remembered them fighting, her face drawn mean and shrewish by anger, his own voice rising until cut off by the punctuation of her slap. He remembered when he discovered she was left-handed and how she said this was sign of superior intelligence. Then she had laughed, rich and full. She did. In spirit, I was fucking her. I watched her keep pace with my stroke. I decided to quicken my rate and as I did, she too, quickened hers. She made me feel as if I were actually inside her. I swore I could feel her pink surrounding glide over my cock as I fondled the shaft God had given me. As she continued at the same velocity I was, she began to feel her breasts. I imagined they were my hands pressing and massaging her mounds as she caressed top half. I could feel her nipples under my palms as they perked with each caress. We were both into the moment and we both knew we would not stop until we reached that magical moment together.I felt the onset of climax approaching and I could tell that she was feeling hers. I saw her body began to shudder. Her feet began to twitch up and down. I could feel the muscles in my body tensing. The muscles in her legs began to tremble. We were both getting close. But she did not lose rhythm. I slowed my strokes as the onset got closer.
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