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With a fistful of my hair still in his hands, he pushed my head forwards and over the arm of the sofa.
He lifted the hem of my dress above my arse, immediately after I felt him removing the belt of his jeans and releasing his cock from its trap.
That I was in some sort of unhealthy relationship with a man who didn't respect me. After what seemed like an age of me being so suddenly accosted against the wall he moved his mouth to my ear and grunted, like the caveman he was: 'Who said you could wear knickers tonight?! It was his way of saying, without words, that he loved me. He took his hands from my delicate throat and guided me, by my arse, down the stairs of our house.Sometimes, when I was dressing in this way, he'd pull me back to the bed and fuck me- his cock pushing past my knickers, which would remain on me long after he had cum and which I would feel erotically soak up his seeping cum from me when we were in the presence of ignorant others.On other occasions, I'd catch him in the mirror stroking his cock as he studied me- with such an absence of embarrassment that it would actually make me blush. He just sat, silently, observing me- like a hunter studying it's prey.It was dark, and I wouldn't have been able to see them if they were. A few glasses of wine and a nice meal in a respectable establishment.A sluttier part of me, always so well hidden from the world, hoped that they had. He was his usual kind and courteous self- almost flirting with the male waiter, despite never a more heterosexual man having lived in existence.