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Mitzi regretted breaking up almost as soon as the words escaped her lips.
I understood her reasons for wanting to end it.
She likes me, but she felt she was unable to get enough time together. There are other people at the parties, and it seems I am often hosting friends from out of town. The out-of-towners get overnights, even weekends, when I don’t have my kids.
Mitzi lives in Manhattan. We have sleepovers, but more seem to go to those who can’t go home after a date.
It’s frustrating for her.
I accepted her rationale, and agreed that she should quit me if our relationship was making her unhappy.
My acceptance only made her unhappier.
Why wasn't I fighting her on this?
Why wouldn’t I promise to change things? Well, because I don’t want to take on an obligation or make false promises.
Why was not seeing me better than seeing me? It’s not, unless seeing me makes her feel sad for the times when she can’t.
We clearly had to talk about this.
For the time being, I wasn’t keen on sex.
In this situation, sex would offer the sense of a resolution where it was clear that was lacking.
So we began to meet more often to talk.
We talked in the park. We talked over meals. We talked in long exchanges of instant messages.
We saw more of each other than we had when we were meeting for sex.
It was as if we had decided to go back and take care of the dating steps we had missed by accelerating into sex.
Much of the time, I felt we were making no progress. We just kept saying the same things, over and again, with no real changes of position.
It frustrated her even more that I was holding out on sex. There was no rush, from my point of view. We could postpone that until it felt right.
Of course, I was still keeping busy with others, as she read in my blog.
She wasn’t getting any sex. She was just not interested in starting up with someone else.
This impasse could not stand.
We both broke.
I agreed to do what I could to arrange more sleepovers for us.
She agreed to do what she could to contain her jealousy.
“Now can we fuck?”
“Yes, and about time.”
We met to mix it up on my sheets.
Mitzi had brought her short leather belt. She needed a spanking in the worst way.
She got it.
She gasped as I reddened her ass, her thighs, her arms and back.
As she took her spanking, she pressed her clit on my thigh. I tensed my leg muscles.
She wanted to “high school.”
Mitzi can bring herself to orgasm in next than no time. “High school” is a technique she discovered when she was fifteen, fooling around with her boyfriend.
She presses her clit down on me, someplace firm and resistant. Usually my pubis, but this time, my thigh was doing the trick.
She grinds and rubs and rubs and grinds until she rubs it out.
“High school” is guaranteed to work, every time.
She came as I spanked her. Her face was ecstatic.
“Better?” I asked.
“Mmmhmmm.” She said, her head tipping onto my ribs. “I like it when you take control of me.”
I slept at her place that weekend.