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In the early days, before we truly peeled back the layers of each other, his fascination with my past was almost insatiable. It wasn’t a judgmental interrogation, but a soft, probing quest for intimacy, as if understanding my pussy’s history was the key to understanding me.
“Your First boyfriend. What was his name?” he’d ask, his voice a low hum against my ear as we lay tangled in sheets, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. I told him, a name I hadn’t thought of in years. He listened, rapt. Then, “How old were you when you fucked him for the first time?” His eyes searched mine, not for shock value, but for the story behind the number.
