Another true story. Probably from eight years ago, I think?
She was an old friend. We had been lovers, in the past, but she had long since moved away to the opposite end of the country. We were long-distance mates for years then. She would call me up, d*unk and on her way home after a bad date. We would talk for hours. I would email her long, rambling, essays on what I had been up to over the summer. We shared stories of love and loss. We shared jokes. We played videogames together online. We remained good friends, despite time and distance.
When I told her that I was divorcing my wife and moving into a place of my own, her response had me howling with laughter. “Can I be your first date? I’ll catch a flight at the weekend.”
So it was agreed. I was moving into my new place that weekend and she would come see me the weekend after. We would dress well, meet in a bar and go out for dinner, just as though it was a blind date. It practically could have been – whilst we were as thick as thieves by phone, email and so on, we had not actually seen each other in years.
I got a shock when she walked in. The long, luscious, jet-black hair that I always attributed to her half-Italian heritage was gone, replaced by a bleached blonde shaggy rockstar crop. She looked great. Curvy, loud and just a touch on the vampy side. Gorgeous. She sat beside me, draped one arm over the back of our booth seat, and kissed me on the lips before even saying hello. “Hi. I’m your date for the evening.”
We spent the next couple of hours talking. The conversation flowed freely, like we had never been apart. We flirted shamelessly all through the evening. looking long into one another’s eyes while chatting, touching hands and arms when making a point and just not quite letting the touch end. We never made it to dinner. Another hour or two passed in a blur of drinks and laughter before we even realised that we had missed our reservation by an age. Again, it was her who made a suggestion. “I’m a simple girl at heart. Fancy taking me home and buying me a pizza instead? I can kick your arse on the Xbox while we wait for it to arrive.”
That sort of comment was exactly why I had always found her so attractive. She could turn heads anywhere we went, in killer heels and a cocktail dress … but inside she was still the same tomboy who, when we were younger, would go down on me on the sofa after watching a terrible B-movie.
We did order pizza, but by the time it arrived we were already half-naked. I had to shrug a shirt back on to answer the door, but somehow we managed to actually stop what we were doing and eat most of it.
She liked to take control in bed, which I deeply enjoyed. Not in a forceful way, just that she was always one step ahead. The next move was always hers. It was her who kissed me first. Her who pulled off my clothes. Her who said “Take me to the bedroom now.” Her slight Italian-American drawl always turned me on, but when she says things like “I’m going to suck your cock now.” and grins widely, it is almost too much to bear. I have never been with another girl who worships cock the way that she does. Just holding my hard cock, staring at it, squeezing, touching, licking, kissing … her eyes glazed over, she lost herself in the act for what felt like an eternity. She laid down, between my legs, not just so that she could reach properly, but to get comfortable. To settle in for the long haul. She moaned with pleasure, spat on me for lubrication and took her sweet time. I forgot what day it was, let alone what hour, until I felt my orgasm building and reached down to knot my fingers through her cropped, messy hair. I held her stock still by the back of the head with her full lips halfway down my cock, and came, shuddering with the intensity of it, into her mouth. The look of joy and lust in her eyes when she crawled back up the bed to kiss me with thick white spunk dripping from the corner of her mouth was incredible.
We didn’t sleep that night. At most we dozed lightly for half an hour at a time, between having sex over and over again, every way we could. I took her from behind, pushing her right off the bed and standing to fuck her on the floor. We screwed against the wall. I held her legs high in the air, relishing the view of myself entering her while she breathed out my name. We took turns to lick, tease and wind each other up before rolling on yet another condom and doing it again.
Eventually though, morning had to arrive. I took a shower and got ready to leave for work. By the time I was clean and dressed, she had fallen into a well deserved deep slumber.
I didn’t see her again on that visit. In fact, we’ve not seen each other since, though we still talk. She left my place while I was at work, texting to let me know that she had locked up and was on her way for a train all the way back home. When I made it back from work, shattered from the lack of sleep and the physical exhaustion, my place smelled of her. The mixture of her perfume and the smell of sex was still strong. Just walking in the door brought back every moment of the previous night.
I stepped into my bedroom to hang up my coat, and found her knickers, from the night before, left neatly on my pillow. Black silk, with a small gemstone surrounded by lace on the front. A memento. Or maybe a trophy, I don’t know.
I texted her, to say thank you. “I planned that.” She replied. “I bought them on my way to meet you, just so I could leave them behind.” And finally; “I hope they still smell of me.”
They did. |
