The springs creaked, and she felt the bed dip further as he shifted his weight. She sighed secretly, her eyes trained on the cracks in the ceiling as her body was jolted again and again. He continued on not noticing, or choosing to ignore, the distant cold eyes that refused to return his gaze. That was if he was even looking at her face. Somehow she doubted it.
Damn, this man was insatiable. Seriously, she had been good and satisfied a while ago. Just how long had this been going on? An hour, two? It felt like it. She guessed it really didn't matter much. He would be done soon enough. No man could go on forever. At least she hoped so.
The man… what was his name again? It was exotic, she knew that. No, wait, that had been last weekend. With Armand… or Arno… or Adrien…. No, no. This was just another white, Anglo Saxon from… Chicago or something. Whatever, didn't matter. He was attractive, young, and apparently in great shape judging by his stamina. And, with luck, he would be satisfied with a one night stand. She hated those guys who actually wanted to "hang out" again. So annoying. Wasn't it the girl who was supposed to be clingy?
He shifted again, dropping to his elbows in an attempt to penetrate her more deeply. Moans and grunts punctuated his every thrust. He seemed intent on driving her into a second orgasm. She chuckled, best of luck to him. At the sound of her mocking laughter, his movements became more energetic. Either he had taken it as a reaction to his "finesse" or he was finally nearing his climax. Thank God.
Paul! That was it. His name was Paul. She had met him at a club, one of her regulars. After humping on the dance floor for a little over an hour, she had smoothly invited him back to her place, for some horizontal humping. And, of course, he had been more than happy to oblige. And here they were, a few hours later, still in the fiery throws of "passion."
Her psychiatrist had told her that she had a problem, using sex in order to forget who she was. He had suggested that she try to develop a hobby. Like painting… or writing. That way she could take out her frustrations in a more productive, healthy way. Needless to say, she didn't get the point. How was this not healthy? No one was getting hurt. Everyone was leaving happy. Okay, some more than others, but that was beside the point. And, hey, there was all that recent research about how people who have frequent sex have a lower risk of heart attack. How could that be unhealthy?
Another strong thrust. A slight twinge of pain as he hit a sensitive and tired nerve. She imagined the cold, lonely bed that lay ahead of her. She couldn't wait. She wanted nothing more than to be alone. To lose herself in the solitude of the night. After all, even with this man, with these constant, ever-changing men, it's not like she wasn't alone already. It didn't matter. This was how she wanted it. They were only using her as much as she was using them.
A throbbing. A spreading warmth as he finally reached his end. He collapsed, pushing his spent body to lay at her side just in time to miss the lone tear streak down her flushed cheek. She felt him recoil back into himself as he rolled over, joining her in her shelled state. Her eyes again lovingly traced those familiar ceiling cracks as she felt her soul fragment itself even further. How could this be unhealthy?