For days after the meeting, he hurts. How do I know? He tells me. For him, it’s the muscles of his thighs, at the front. For years, he hasn’t used to any extent that particular movement, that pivoting, back and forth, heedless of the stretching that would have been obvious any other time. His focus was all on me, and on his thrusting cock, and on my gaping pussy. He moved like the teenager he isn’t. Of course he hurts now. I suspect his shoulders are sore, too. He spent hours leaning over me, his weight on his arms, self-satisfied smile glued in place, closing his eyes and sighing with each gentle sliding entry. I can’t imagine that he’s used to that particular position, and I know he doesn’t do push-ups regularly to develop that capacity. There are a few places on his back, and on his arms, and, yes, on his ass, too, where he likely feels the sting left behind by my raking nails. I didn’t mean to hurt him, and he only winced once or twice. It was his own fault for bringing me to one volcanic climax after another. I can’t be held responsible for the actions of my grasping fingers in those moments. He’s not complaining, though. With every movement, for days, he thinks of me. He thinks of himself acting the role of sex god for me. With every twinge, he hears me yelling his name, telling him how good he makes me feel. These are good pains — he’s not hoping for a quick recovery.

I hurt, too. There are the red burn marks around my mouth that are evidence of non-stop hours of kissing, in his own particular style — over the lips, on the lips, under the lips, rinse, repeat. These I relish each time I look into the mirror to cover them with makeup. There is the raw place at the entrance to my vagina. With all the lubrication of repeated orgasms, his and mine, and such extreme arousal — still, he is thick and long, and all that time spent violently then quietly fucking, has left me sore. Furthermore, I have my own thigh issues. I may be flexible, but I’m 42, and so much time with my ankles over his shoulders definitely equates to the most difficult of my pilates sessions. I have the added painful sensation of handmarks on my buttocks, exactly where I asked him to spank me as he fucked my ass. Even my neck feels uncomfortable; my head was twisted to the side when he pounded me into the mattress from behind. Like him, though, these little injuries feel like souvenirs, even trophies. In the days that follow our encounter, I surreptitiously touch my nipples, and remember his teeth on them. I wear the softest of panties, and move carefully, smiling to myself with every memory that surfaces.

When we talk next, we giggle about the aftereffects of our loving exertions, and wonder to each other whether we could physically handle being together more often than we are. Truth is, the hardest thing from which to recover, is our unspoken but shared knowledge that we will never have the chance to find out.