“Tell me to go now,” he said, “and I’ll go. If you don’t tell me to go, then take me to your bedroom. Right now.”
I looked up into his eyes and felt my vagina fill with a sudden hot rush of lubricating fluid. “Don’t go.”
We didn’t walk to the bedroom, we moved in a kind of dance stripping each other’s clothes off as we went. I wasn’t wearing much, in any case – barefoot with a blue dress with bra and panties, if I remember right – and was naked well before he was. As we entered the bedroom, his trousers fell around his ankles, and he pulled me into a tight embrace. I slid my hands down his back, under the waistband of his Y fronts, and cupped his buttocks. Still embracing me, he moved us both towards the bed, and as I felt the edge touch the back of my knees I gripped the underwear and pulled it down.
The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back on the bed, my feet still on the floor and my legs wide apart, while Dylan leant over me. His fingers traced up my perineum and tickled up along my labia, just avoiding my slit. I wriggled, desperate to feel them inside me.
“Not yet,” he whispered, and his head dipped to take my nipple into his mouth. His teeth nipped lightly at it as his fingers continued to squeeze and tickle my labia. I moaned and reached out to grasp his penis. It was hot and throbbing in my hand. I rubbed it and heaved my hips frantically until, with a sensation of blessed relief, I felt his fingers slip into my weeping cleft. First one and then a second finger pushed into my vagina and began twisting around, his hand pushing to meet my heaving hips while his lips sucked at my nipples.
My first orgasm struck without warning. Usually I can feel it coming, building up, but it exploded out of nowhere so suddenly that I screamed in mingled shock and ecstasy. My entire body went rigid and trembled as though I was in the grasp of an electric shock. The pulses of pleasure spread from my vagina to my belly and breasts and face, to my eyes until I squeezed them shut, to my mind until I almost blacked out.
Even before the tide of pleasure had ebbed, I felt his fingers slide out of my vagina, and expected his penis to take their place. Instead, he slid down my body and knelt on the floor between my parted thighs. My labia minora are triangular, like tiny wings, and his lips closed around them and began tugging them. I moaned and writhed again, the pleasure already surging back.
When the tip of his tongue touched my clitoris I thought I would die. My breath caught in my chest, I choked on a second scream, caught in another orgasm so strong that I must have arched my entire body below my neck and shoulders off the bed. His tongue jabbed at my clit rhythmically, and I shook and came and trembled and gasped because I could not even cry not anymore.
When he finally stopped licking, I reached down, caught him by the shoulders, and pulled him up over me. “Are you going to fuck me now?” I asked. “Are you please going to fuck me, because I don’t think I can survive this otherwise?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Oh yes.” Kneeling on the bed between my thighs, he lifted my legs over his shoulders. His throbbing penis head found my vagina, slippery with his saliva and my lubrication, and pushed in.
It’s been years, and I’ve had sex hundreds of times since, but I’ll never forget that fuck. I looked up at him, at his shaved head and clipped goatee framed between my feet, my toes clenching with pleasure, his hands grasping my shins, and all I could think of was “I’m having sex. Oh heavens I’m finally getting laid again. I am actually getting fucked right now.” With every thrust he made my breasts flopped back and forth on my chest, and I put my hands lightly over my nipples so that they brushed them and sent shocks of ecstasy through me.
Yet another orgasm was coming. This one took a long time to build, because our position wasn’t really putting much direct pressure on my clitoris and because I’d already come so hard that I was a bit numbed, but I felt it coming. Dylan was getting closer to his own orgasm as well. I saw him looking down, watching his penis thrust in and out of me as he speeded up his stokes, and wished I could see it as well. I felt him hardening and thickening inside me, and if my legs hadn’t been raised up over his shoulders I’d have bucked my hips to meet his thrusts.
My orgasm came a little before his. It thrilled in spasms around my vagina, raced up to my belly, and I felt my perineum convulse as I clutched his penis inside me. Then he squeezed his eyes tightly, moaned, and I felt the hot wet flood of his ejaculation spurting into me. We stayed like that for a while before his erection subsided, and he slowly withdrew. My legs slipped off his shoulders, he lay down on top of me, and as my breasts were crushed against his chest I fancied I could feel his heart beating against my right nipple as my hands stroked him from the back of his head to his buttocks. We kissed for a long time.
“It’s been very long for you, hasn’t it?” he said.
“Longer than I thought,” I whispered back.
“Well,” he said, “you can have it as often as you want or need, from now on.”
********************************************
After that Dylan and I fucked almost every weekend. Saturdays we’d go for a ride, unless it was raining heavily or too cold, and then we’d come back to my place or his and screw. (Oddly, we never revisited that place where he had admitted to me that he had taken his women to have sex in the moonlight. I’m half glad he didn’t because I didn’t really want to share him with memories of anyone.)
On Sundays, if he hadn’t stayed overnight, I always invited him home to lunch. I would wake with, even before I opened my eyes, the pleasant knowledge that he would be coming and that I would be having sex. I spent the morning cooking, either in a robe with nothing on underneath or simply in the nude, anticipating his call to let me know he was coming over. If there was nobody visible through the window or the peephole in my door, I would open it for him naked. We’d be kissing even before he shut the door behind him, and I’d be pulling off his clothes right there just inside the door. Almost always we would immediately fuck in the living room, without any need for preliminaries or foreplay. Most times it would be on the carpet, with him on top in the missionary position. Sometimes I would push him down on the sofa, straddle him, and plunge up and down on his penis while he fondled my boobs. It was frantic sex, as though we were desperately making up for lost time, even though we’d fucked a week or even only the night before.
Then we would eat, and after washing up we would go into my bedroom and have sex again, much slower, more tender, longer lasting. And then we would usually fall asleep in each other’s arms for a while and he’d go home in the evening.
There was no question of us moving in together. We weren’t in love; I don’t think we ever mentioned the l-word in connection with each other. It was the sex we needed, the sex and human connection.
After a few months, I found another job, the one before the one I have now. I was glad – I was ecstatic – to leave the Bitch, even though it would entail a relocation. I even threw a little party for Dylan to celebrate, and it ended with us fucking all night.
“Don’t ever get into that kind of rut again,” he said as we lay twined together. “Sex is a human need, and going without it isn’t good for you.”
“I won’t,” I said. “But if I don’t have someone to sleep with in this new place, can I visit you time to time? I’ll give you plenty of warning, I promise, so you can get your current inamorata out of the way.”
He agreed readily, but it didn’t come to that. In my new place I had a woman co-worker who seduced me on literally my fifth day on the job, and I had no lack of sex again over the months that followed.
But that is another story, for another day. Assuming you want me to tell it.
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