“One more time”, she tells herself, as his hand gropes her breast under her dress, his lips on her neck. “One more time.”
Another night passes. Somehow, her lacy black thong is on the floor and their clothes are trailing from the living room to the bathroom. Her long, dark hair is covering her sweaty face as she rides him. On the outside, she is moaning with pleasure. Internally, she is feeling slight shame. “One more time.” She tells herself. “One more time.”
“One more time.” He tells himself one week later. He had truly believed he would never see her face again, and yet here she was, her hands stroking his penis gently. He felt damn near guilty for being so vulnerable to such pleasure from her, but he could not fight the urge to push her body against the wall and fuck her then and there.
“One more time.” He told himself. “One more time.”
His self-control could barely hold past a few days, as them going at each other’s throats turned into her getting on her knees and taking his cock down her throat. As he moaned he swore to himself that this would be the last time he gave into such foolish temptation. “One more time.” He told himself as he pushed that long, dark hair out her face and she stroked, “One more time.”
“That’s it.” She cried out the next day when she received no text back.
“That’s it.” He reluctantly grumbled as he flicked the ashes of his cigarette into the ashtray. Even if she remained implanted in his head all day, especially when he pleased himself, he simply refused to give in. They were beyond toxic for each other and the only connection they had was when he was inside her.
Still, he found himself with her thighs pressed against his cheeks. He licked around her vagina, hitting the spot as her body twitched and she could barely even contain to say, “One…more…time.”
She enjoyed teasing him. That is why she went down on him in a theatre with people just inches away. He enjoyed punishing her for her reckless attitude which is why he spanked her until her cheeks were as red as a tomato, to which she only pretended to protest against.
“One more time.” Would leave his lips as though he was being programmed to say it. At this point, he hardly even believe that phrase anymore. It was like saying a word over and over until it loses all meaning.
“One more time.” She mumbled in a monotone voice to herself as the water from the shower faucet poured on them, though she was already moist at the mere sight of the body she had come to know so well and still be so darn attracted to.
Every time to them was one more time. One more time of furiously shoving their tongues in each other’s mouths, one more time of releasing their pented up lust and desires for each other as he thrusted and thrusted until he came, one more time of pissing off the neighbors with moans and screams, one more time of her being taken to a place of euphoria with every lick and caress that no man had taken her to before, one more time of their clothes being a mere nuisance that was torn off and tossed away into a pile, one more time of the post-sex talk and cuddle, one more time of her running out of his apartment in fear of commitment, which had turned to her falling asleep in his soft, gentle embrace, and one more time of saying, “one more time.”
Each time was, “one more time.” Until that phrase lost any significance and faded away into the air because it stopped exiting their mouths. They had accepted this as a lie. There was never a one more time for them.
Once or twice is an experience. A few times is a bad habit.
More than that? Well, it becomes an addiction.