She lies on cool cotton sheets, legs spread invitingly.  I settle between them, sinking into her welcoming depths.  Her heat engulfs me.

“What are we doing tomorrow?” I say.  Even as the words escape my lips I regret saying them.  I’m not sure why I’ve chosen this moment to discuss the following day’s errands.

“At ten o’clock we have to be at Wells Fargo to sign those papers,” she says as I start to thrust.  My hands find her full breasts, my fingers gently caressing her nipples.  “Right after that we have to go to the post office.”  She pauses.  “Well, you don’t have to come.  I can drop you off at home with the baby if you want.”  My caresses evolve into less-forgiving pinches.

“No, I’ll come with you.  We can have lunch while we’re out.”  She shows no discomfort over what my fingers are doing to her nipples and issues tacit agreement to my lunch idea.  “Anything else we need to do?” I ask.  She reminds me of lightbulbs we need to buy.

I should point out that our pillow talk is usually a lot sexier than this.  On most occasions, the things that come out of our mouths during sex involve the things we’d like to do to each other, and to other people.  The names of those to whom we’d like to do these things are usually spoken.  There’s lots of That feels so good and Don’t stop.

This weekend, however, we’ve had very little time that was our own.  A huge family event took up much of Friday, just about all of Saturday, and most of Sunday morning and afternoon.  I managed to get away long enough to see a movie with a friend on Sunday, and while that was fun I couldn’t help but think that the time would’ve been better spent with Jill.

The last few days it has been difficult for us to find time to relate to one another on a non-sexual level, and as a result we’re finding it necessary to multi-task.  That’s why, rather than Fuck me harder Jill is asking about the movie even as I’m lowering my left hand from her right breast.

“It was good,” I say, sounding non-committal.  My thrusts slow down as my fingers find her clit.  I can’t see it, but I can tell it’s standing up, desperate for attention.

“What did you see?”  As I touch her, she gasps.  Her breaths come in shallow wheezes.

“The new Batman,” I say, moving my fingers in small circles.  “I liked it.”

“How does it compare to the last one?”

“I don’t know,” I say.  “Different kind of movie, I guess.  Last part of a trilogy.”  Then, almost as if I’m trying to discourage further conversation, I lower my mouth to her neglected nipple and draw it in, my tongue mirroring the movements of my hand.

It isn’t long before she reaches her peak, climaxing violently, her hips bucking against mine as my fingers continue their dance over her clit.  She thrashes against the bed, her head slamming repeatedly into her pillow.  She cries out, announcing her orgasm in the most explicit terms imaginable.

I give her a moment to recover.  Then, taking my hand away, I begin to thrust deeply once more.  “So,” I say, “what were you thinking about when you came?”

“Honestly?  I was thinking about Batman.”