Free The Absolutely True Story of Us by Melanie Marchande

head in place, firmly. Taking control of the kiss. My mouth devouring hers. She goes rigid for a second, and then suddenly becomes pliant.
    Oh, yes. There's my girl.
    My mind is racing and bouncing all over the place, thinking back to all the times we were in bed together, and it seemed like she'd freeze up. The memories are fragmented, but they come back. Every time, I'm almost positive, it's because I was asking her what she liked, what she wanted. Softly and kindly and sweetly, the way you're supposed to do with someone you care about. I remember the intense feeling of frustration when she'd just blush and shake her head, her favorite answer always a murmured: "I dunno."
    Now, I get it. She's not embarrassed about sex, she's just a submissive, through and through. She didn't know how to ask to be dominated. I mean, it's a hell of a contradiction. I can't really blame her, although a little part of me wonders how different things could have been between us.
    My heart beats wildly in my chest, and needless to say, my dick could probably cut glass. I'm thinking of all the possibilities. Everything she probably wanted me to do, all the desires hidden behind that bashful I dunno .  
    I can be that man. I know my way around her body, where to kiss and touch, although I'll be the first to admit I stopped putting the knowledge to good use at some point. I got complacent, I guess. We both withdrew into ourselves. I'm still selfish, but now I realize that doesn't have to be a bad thing. I very selfishly want to see her fall to pieces. I know I can do it. I want to prove I'm not still the guy who fell into the habit of seven minutes of missionary every two weeks, only to roll over and fall asleep. I don't think I could be that guy again.  
    Because, you know, there's sex, and then there's sex . Most men don't struggle to get theirs, so the journey of erotic exploration is mostly left to the frustrated and unsatisfied women who'd like to really enjoy themselves, just this once . It's a stereotype, I guess, but it's true. Men are wired to ejaculate. The species can't continue if we don't. As long as that happens, nothing else really matters to our lizard brains. And so millions of years of evolution have left us with a generation of two-pump chumps who may or may not even enjoy the sex they're having, but hey, at least they're fulfilling their biological imperative.
    We have no motivation to push back against it, unless, of course, we suddenly discover what it means to really be turned on.
    This isn't about scratching an itch, relieving pressure so I can go to sleep. There's a roaring sensation in my head that's begging me to bend her over the sofa and leave bite marks in the soft flesh of her ass. To spank her until the wetness of her arousal trickles down her leg. To lick it up, taste it, to lose myself in her pleasure. None of those things make any kind of sense biologically. And yet I have this primal need to make her scream.
    I pull away from her, finally, trying to catch my breath. I know I won't be able to. Not until I've satisfied the needs writhing and twisting inside me.  
    "Get up," I tell her roughly.  
    This is the moment when she might stop, might back away. Might run. But somehow I know she won't.
    She stands, unsteadily, swallowing hard. Her eyes are closed.  
    "Turn around," I whisper.  
    She does. She's now standing in front of me, body quivering, waiting.
    "Take off your skirt."
    She unfastens it, and it falls easily to the side. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of the black lace panties, stark on her skin, showing much more than they conceal. I run my finger along the intricate design, watching goose bumps rise along her skin as she feels the warmth of my touch through the flimsy fabric.
    Finally, my finger hooks on the waistband, pulls it slightly, and lets it snap back. She gasps.
    "Who are these for?" I murmur.
    I hear her swallow again, and then she answers. "None of your business."
    I stand up,