Bilal looks a little impatient, enough quirk, more flesh. He interrupts me, “You told me that before,” and that might be true because I can’t move past it. I stick a little movie in my head, his flesh, softer and drier than almost anyone else. Weeks later when I understand he’s as warm as a cedar plank in a sauna, something vital in me relaxes. This last time I remember how garlic was sharp in the room, and I can’t remember if he kissed the inside of my thigh or if I just wanted him to. I’m sure he would have, and isn’t that the point of these types of reminiscences?
In bed I’m on my stomach and he knows to put that hand of his on the back of my neck and ask in my ear if I want to be slapped. I say no, I mean yes, but he and I talk so differently about the same goddamn thing that I think it’s best to keep it vanilla. We have not discovered any prolonged period of chemistry, and he likes not knowing me, keeping things a little role play and anonymous. He’s healthy and gorgeous and I might be the only legit weirdo in his bed.
I’ve got his cock in my mouth, and he likes it, he likes it well enough–I’m not a believer yet. I suspect he’s rounding up and giving unearned validation, but then he had his hand, again, on my back maybe up my shoulder blade and ribs. I’ve maneuvered around and made this obvious enough, and he likes it. This par, I believe, he likes female bits. He puts his fingers in and around my cunt. I’ve stopped, stopped sucking him, and I’m watching a not-quite REM cycle, the one side of his brain not working and the other part furiously going. I’m on my knees swaying as he balances all of me on his palm.
Max is sweaty, sweatier than I would have thought considering the air conditioned drive over. We kiss briefly and then he’s on top of me on the bed, getting my clothes off in a hurry. I’m a little disoriented and again need more time to be in this moment. I’m not letting myself look down, and I know my skin is sticky with salt, my bra and panties transparent by design and moisture. Max is holding me and acidic with tobacco. Is he fat with whiskey and steak, or is that coke bloat? I’m old fashioned and don’t need any of that to screw a stranger.
He's kind and keeps stopping to ask if I’m alright. Yes, I just need to get past the voices in my head (ha! A fool’s errand, a fool’s journey). I tell him my danger sounds like, “Hey, Fuckey. That hurts. Stop it.” and my go sounds like “You make me laugh.” Max is a gamer, though. Asks for more when I start to fuck his face, and later when he grabs me and I end up on top of him sucking and pulling, his fingers and tongue resolutely explore me. He pushes against my body so softly, I am relieved when I feel the scratch of his beard on my torso.
This is to say, Max talks when his mouth is full–when we’re kissing asking if everything is okay, when he’s on his knees and his mouth is exploring my cunt. Well, I believe that was another affirmation. He said, “Go for it,” when I started to grind, push, and press right where I wanted. I stopped him to hear what he said then tried to go on. He’s bigger than I’m used to, and picks me up and moves me where he likes–fussily rearranging me three times in ten minutes. I’m tough and not too approachable, so I’m a little surprised to be lifted up high in the air over and over.
He gets me on top of his face, with my face and mouth on his cock, and I lose track of what I should be doing, of what I think he’ll like. I just want to get him so close. I want him and then he’s got fingers in and around my cunt and I can’t help it. I’m pushing back and pressing his fingers in and trying to steal leverage–even though I know he wouldn’t begrudge me a moment of more.
The moment passes, I get back in my head, and find that spot underneath he likes with my tongue. I don’t know if I’ve convinced him on this whole moment, because I am surely trying to get all of him in my mouth. He stops, or keeps with his hands or something–I hear his voice and I scoot down and asked him to repeat, “My face is soaked over here.” He’s pink and sweaty–I feel my brain update and I know it’s not sweat and I’m thinking of other partner’s faces with wet beards and eyebrows and eyelashes. I don’t know what I did–I asked an oddball question about cell coverage months ago–he asked me for coffee this morning, and now we’re here at 2:00am with me apologizing to this man and him barking out, “It’s fucking hot, get your pussy back over here…” I take this suggestion as a good suggestion and resume the position.
He eats me, then pipes in with a “I think I should put a condom on.” He gracelessly shifts his weight over and into me. It’s over quickly, before I can get back on top and his sorrow makes me laugh. We talk about nothing, at one point he gets up and gets me a glass of water. He came by his boarding school manners honestly, and there’s something under the fetching of the water, the kneeling by the bed, the rearranging of limbs. Oh, Max. If I had more time I’d tell you what to do, I’d push my thighs onto your shoulders and hold your face right where I want it.
He stops me at the door, and almost steps out of his shoes when he asks me about the origin of one of my screen names. This guy, this guy who lives his life in front of three screens minimum, didn’t think to google my very easy nom-de-plum.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/3g219x/f4m_f4m_nice_to_meet_you