I figured I’d interrupt the regularly scheduled program of brokenhearted moaning and groaning and take some pleasant walks down memory lane. This is an archived note I wrote back in August of ’10. Jimmy happened before I’d met Troy, which is significant, and before I ever had sex as my marriage disintegrated into full-blown separation. My voice is different to my new ears and honed writing skills, and to my better understanding of myself, but the message is the same: I love men, I love cock, I love sex, I am dissolute. This will be part of a Memories Series just so as not to confuse you all with timelines and men — I know it’s confusing enough as it is. Enjoy.
My evening started at around 6:45 with a photo of my skirt hiked up and my hand on my inner thigh that I texted to Jimmy, a former lover from eons ago, from a coffee shop on a busy street.
We texted for two hours. Me, looking over my shoulder wondering if anyone could see the filthy things I was writing or any of his photos. My pussy pulsed, my heart raced, I couldn’t stop fidgeting.
He was alone, he said. Had a night “free.” The girlfriend was out of town.
Eventually, I felt emboldened and texted, “So, for fantasy’s sake, what would happen if I came over right now?” He’d already given me weak push-back. I could tell he was struggling, but I certainly didn’t want to break him on the fidelity front. I really was just testing.
He wrote back, “Oh man… I think we’d have some wine… but wouldn’t take long for us to have our hands on each other.” Then, “I’d want you to take it from me… make me give in.”
I told him to tell me where he lived and he (wisely) gave me cross-streets. We laughed with LOLs at the evasion, but I knew enough to know he wasn’t far from where I was sitting.
I was so turned on I was shaking, and yet, it was juxtaposed with the reality that I looked like a normal woman sitting at a sidewalk cafe wearing a short, flowing skirt and a white v-neck. It was incredible. A fantasy come true.
I sent him a picture of my face and he remarked at how “dirty” I looked. I felt like I could have slayed a dragon at that moment. Had there been an armed robbery I would’ve saved the fucking day.
He told me he wished he could cum on my tits. I drew a vivid picture for him of his hands on my body, his mouth on my tits, him pinning me down and pile driving into me while I pulled him in deeper with my hands.
Then he says this: “Yeah… fuck. Holy shit. I can’t even think.”
I thought he’d just cum and that he was cum dumb and as a joke I say, “Quick, tell me where you live hahaha.”
And he does. He fucking gave me an address.
My heart starts slamming in my chest, my pussy wetter than when showered, and I ask him if he’s serious. I give him outs, I tell him to tell me to fuck off lest I walk to my car and come right over, but still he’s hemming and hawing. He’s concerned that he “can’t” do anything and doesn’t trust himself, but I trust myself entirely and assure him that if it’s weird I’ll leave immediately, but I’d like to hang out if, at the very least, to talk about what the hell it is we’re doing with each other.
Then he says, “Come on.”
So I go.
I arrive 10 minutes later outside of his little blue house. Knock fucking knock.
We’re nervous, it is a little weird, but not bad. It’s been 7 or 8 years since we’ve seen each other. So much has changed and yet, nothing. He’s still tall, goofy looking, hung, adorable. When we fucked the couple of times we did back then it was electric and I didn’t know half the things I know now about him now, nor him about me. We’d been sexting for 3 months. I felt like I knew the inside of his sexual brain.
I have a glass of wine, he grabs a beer. We smoke a cigarette, we chat about his house, our lives, a little about sex. I am going to stay true to my fucking word and I am, literally, sitting on my hands. I get a little saucy and when he returns from the bathroom I make sure to be leaning over to get some lip gloss from my purse. I have no idea if he noticed, but a few minutes later he does something that changes the entire trajectory of the night for me.
He grabs my phone and starts flipping through our conversation from that afternoon, which also includes previous sexts. He’s opening pics, we’re laughing, he keeps moving closer. I don’t know what to do. I’m vibrating with arousal. I don’t want to push him even though he’s told me before that his sexual appetite inevitably ends any relationship he’s in, but I still certainly don’t want to be the catalyst; nor do I want him to associate me with guilt or regret. He seems so easy and relaxed, we’re laughing, barely flirting, so on a whim I grab the phone and run into the bathroom with a twinkle in my eye. I think I’m being funny, but not inappropriate.
I take a picture of the bra that he’s just told me is “fucking amazing” in my text pic and I come back out and text it to him. And now it was my turn to change the course of the night; it brought everything to a whole new level.
And still I think I have it under control.
He gets the text and immediately gets a hard on, strokes it for me and draws my attention to it. I would never have thought to look otherwise. He says this is what happens to him whenever I send him a photo when he’s at work. I tell him to re-enact the work scenario, so he stands up, turns his back to me and takes out his cock and phone and takes a pic of it and texts me back. Modestly he puts his dick back in his pants and sits down.
I get the text and tell him what I would have texted. His eyes glimmer, I’m humming between my legs. I say, “Unbuckle your pants.”
And so he does.
“Stroke it for me. I want to see.”
And he does.
We’re looking at each other with pain, mirth, and arousal. I feel ablaze with desire and power and submission. He could have asked me anything at that moment and I would have done it.
As he strokes his cock I sit on my hands and lean towards it. I look him square in the eyes and say, “I promise I won’t touch it,” as I let my hair fall forward and tease the tip. The air is electric. I lean lower and open my mouth and let my hot breath skate across the head. He moans. I take a sip of wine, lean back over and let some dribble out over his cock. He moans again and I close my eyes and envision devouring it with my mouth, I lean closer, spit on the head and suddenly I feel its heat hit my lips. I jump up and apologize for losing my balance.
He says, “You didn’t. It was me.”
I pull way back and breathe, chest rising. I’m clutching at my thighs as I sit cross-legged for want of him. I watch some more, my eyes on the heavy meat in his hands, a whole two feet away.
“I want to see you!“ he demands suddenly as he lifts my skirt. I understand immediately and pull it up around my waist, pull down my panties and start to stroke my clit. “More. I want to see that pussy. Now.” I pull my panties down more and plunge my fingers in. I’m sopping wet.
“I can hear it already.”
I am soaring, climbing.
“I can smell you.”
“I can, too,” I whisper.
Then it’s a blur. I was happy doing just that but then he’s looming over me, all 6’2″ of him. “I want to touch you,” he whispers hoarsely. I nod consent, completely delirious, and his long fingers stroke and enter me, his palm friction on my curls. I look up at him and his face is intense and consuming mine, watching me. I close my eyes again, overwhelmed with passion, unbelievably happy this is happening to me, happy with just this, then I feel his lips crush down on mine, his tongue plunders my mouth and he wraps my hair in his hand and pulls roughly. He kisses my neck and then my mouth again, his hand still tangled in my hair and the other deep in my pussy.
I kiss him back fiercely, whimpering. He stops kissing and keeps fingering me then wraps his big hand around my throat and I cry out. This is what we’ve been talking about for months together: his hands on my throat while fucking me. I clutch at his arms, still afraid to touch his cock, even now. His hand is working furiously, he keeps bending down to ravage my mouth, I am lost. So, utterly lost.
I grab his cock and squeeze but I can barely move; I can’t think. He stands straight and it wobbles in front of my face.
“I want to suck it,” I gasp.
“What?” he asks.
“I want to suck it,“ I say throatily. He nods.
I plunge down onto it and he grabs my head with both hands and chokes me with its length. I have my hands wrapped around his ass pulling him into me then gag and cough and turn away only to dive back onto it. My hand is around the shaft, my other hand is clutching his pant leg.
“I want to feel your balls. Take your pants off,” I pant. I rip his pants down and start sucking again like it’s oxygen, but still fondling his balls in one hand. I can feel his hands on my head guiding me. Then he whispers he’s going to cum. I redouble my efforts because I know that if I make him wait we’ll do a whole lot more than just this. My left hand is moving with my mouth, my right snakes around to his perineum and anus and my fingers push deftly at their fuzziness.
His moans tumble on top of one another and I drink his cum like it was the wine he’d given me earlier. Some spills out down my chin and onto my neck as I suckle it to completion.
He throws himself back on the couch and I do the same. I’m panting like I just ran a marathon. I’m so jacked up I’m seeing stars.
He gets me a glass of water to rinse my mouth and I chuckle at the sweetness but tell him, “Don’t worry. It tasted like nectar. Really.” He’s still skeptical, but then again, he’s not the one with jizz tingling on his tongue, either, so how could he possibly understand the beauty?
It takes us a cigarette, a bathroom break, and a lot of nervous walking and chatting before I calm down enough to feel ok to even drive. He feels like an asshole, he says, but I reassure him he’s not. If anyone’s the fucking asshole, it’s me. Let’s be honest here. He’s worried about me, keeps asking if I’m ok. I laugh and tell him it’s not about me, then he reassures me he’s actually pretty good. “It’d have happened eventually anyway,” he says while looking at me directly.
I leave him with his thoughts and drive home thinking, “No one knows I just sucked dry an amazing cock.” When I get home he texts me and I tell him as much and he says, “True… except me :-)”
Yes, except him. Then he continues to reassure me that he was ok, had rationalized it already, and lamented that he felt like he’d “short changed” me. I reassured him he hadn’t just as I was having my first orgasm. After my second I simply said, “Mmm.”
A couple more “I’m good if you’re good”s were exchanged and here I am: sated; nostrils filled with the scent of his cum; fully understanding that I do still have “it”.
Am I a bad woman because of this? Am I untrustworthy? I can’t wrap my head around it because I’m still in the goddamned afterglow of the entire night. We’ll see what happens to my conscience tomorrow morning.
I guess, sometimes shit just happens. Wonderful, passionate, crazy shit.