This is not going to be a typical post. I’ll warn you up front, there’s not much sensuality to it at all — no finger play, no gloriously messy oral sex. There’s not even any kissing.
But I have promised to confess all, and this seems as good a time as any for this one. And, I must confess as well, the more I think back on the moment, the hotter it is — in some ways — in retrospect.
It was a fall Saturday morning, October or November 2000. I know this because a friend of mine died around that time, and he died in the fall of 2000 when I was working overnights — on a Saturday morning, but not this particular Saturday morning.
The shift ran from midnight to 8 a.m., and the last few hours of that — especially on Saturdays — were deathly boring. I suppose I could have brought a book, but there was Yahoo chat just right there, and so why not?
I was 37 at the time. She was in her mid-40s, visiting her daughter. The daughter, who lived about 15 minutes from the office, went to work at 7 and would be out until early afternoon. My new chatmate wasn’t in a reading mood, either. In fact, she was the one who brought up the idea of me coming over as soon as I got off work.
I sometimes had to work late, even on dead overnight shifts, so an extra hour wouldn’t raise any suspicions. At 8 a.m., I rolled out of the parking garage and headed to the assignation.
The apartment was drab, almost dreary, but clean. She let me in without a hello hug. She looked … tired. Not just physically — this seamed a life-weariness, a fatigue of the spirit. Still, she let me in and led me to the bedroom.
She had dusty blonde hair, pulled up into a short ponytail. About 5-5, a little on the thin side. She wore a loose-fitting tee shirt and white ankle socks — neither of which would come off during what was about to happen.
She sat down in a chair near the bed, turned off the computer, reached into a drawer and pulled out a condom. Then she looked away.
“I don’t want you to kiss me. I don’t want you to play with me or anything like that. Don’t talk. I just want you to fuck me, come as fast as you can, and then go.” Those were the last words she spoke to me.
And with that, she got up, knelt on the bed and pulled up her shirt. I was still a little stunned, but not too stunned to think “Nice ass” and get hard. (Yeah, the moment was a little surreal, but … you know men. We can be visual creatures sometimes.
So I got in position, dropped my pants around my ankles, covered up and proceeded to follow her instructions. I noticed something right away, after the first few strokes. A minute or so later, I noticed something else. I’ll tell you about the first thing later.
The second thing I noticed is that — look, I don’t think I’m giving away any Great Guy Secret when I say that sometimes we have to fight a quick trigger. This was the opposite, though. It wasn’t that being inside her didn’t feel good, because (despite the weary perfunctory impersonal spirit of the whole enterprise) it did. It was that the lack of any sound, any movement, any reaction from her made it hard to get fully into a groove that was going to produce a quick result of me getting off.
In the end, I concentrated on her ass — because it really was nicely shaped, even if not as curvy as I usually like — and the visual stimulation did the trick within a couple of minutes more. Even so, when I came it felt … muted, I suppose. Not disappointing, but not the sort that leaves a fellow head-spinny and catching his breath.
And, that was it. I pulled out, cleaned up, pulled up, zipped up and got out. She never even turned around.
At the time, I didn’t know what to make of it. Part of me felt — sorry, if that’s the right word — for her, to wonder what had happened to make her want such an emotionless experience. There were even times, after I started writing this series, when I seriously considered omitting this story.
But I have promised, as I said, to confess all — and I have promised to tell you the first thing I noticed after I was inside her.
She was wet. I don’t mean a little wet, a sort of “let’s get this over with” lubrication that facilitates the deed but no more. She was soaking.
Whatever was going on in her head — because she sure as hell wasn’t telling me — it had her all kinds of turned on. And I suppose that meant that by railing on her in silence, avoiding even the slightest hint of romance, I was giving her exactly what she wanted, whatever her reasons might have been.
And, in retrospect, that is kind of hot.
Mine not to question why, I suppose. After all, I do aim to please.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/cdqlst/words_are_very_unnecessary_true_story_xpost_from
I like the Depeche mode lyric ?