[F]inally seeing hi[m]

January, 2015. A long-anticipated visit from a distant would-be lover.

I was twenty five then, and Leon two or so years younger than I. We had been speaking for quite some time, had even met before, but this would be the first time we saw each other since crossing the boundary from friendship into something more. My body thrummed in anticipation for days beforehand. As the time drew near, we sent increasingly tender messages to each other, our mutual eagerness mounting. When we finally met, it was sweet beyond telling, though not without some coltish awkwardness. I was… sensitive, back then, and he was the epitome of German bluntness. He was a virgin when we first slept together; I, on the other hand, was involved with a couple of other men (which he knew). Eventually, though, our edges smoothed out against each other’s, our fumbling turning to fireworks.

One night, towards the end of the visit, we were returning from a celebratory dinner, flush with drink and high spirits and crisp air and a surfeit of love, as young lovers tend to be. All night long we had bantered across the dinner table, feet touching, eyes trading unspoken promises. We were still thrillingly new to each other, and this fresh-minted freedom to touch and tease made it so that we could hardly keep our hands to ourselves, every small motion electric. And now we were shedding coats and shoes, making our way to the loft bedroom; ostensibly to dress in more comfortable clothes, but as we padded up the stairs, conversation giving way to silence, we both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

I took a seat on the low bed to take off the pantyhose I was wearing in deference to the Canadian winter, but before I could start Leon was in front of me, his shadow falling across my face. Leon was (and, presumably still is) a tall, slim drink of water, blue-eyed, dark-haired, thick-browed. Teutonically good looking, with sharp white eyeteeth that flashed every time he smiled.

He wasn’t smiling now. Neither, looking up at him, was I.

Slowly, he knelt, running his hands up my thighs and rucking up my skirt, the skin of his fingers so soft my hose didn’t even catch once. I was already getting wet from the anticipation. I leaned back on my elbows, let my knees fall apart, watching silently as his gaze dropped to the shadowed place between my legs.

Suddenly he leaned forward, shoving his face into my crotch, inhaling hungrily. “God,” he said thickly, “I can smell it.”

He looked up again suddenly, eyes wild, as though afraid he’d said something to offend. In that moment, I knew, *knew* to my bones, to my back teeth, that he was mine.

All night I’d been on edge, and suddenly I was on fire. His action — made without conscious thought, done only because he’d wanted to fill his lungs with the scent of me — made me feel powerful, desirable, drunk and dizzy with it, full to brimming with this intoxicating feminine mystique. Understand, this man had been relentlessly fucking me every spare minute we weren’t eating or sleeping for the better part of a week. I had imagined he would tire of the novelty, take his fill and be satisfied, but apparently not. It was… gratifying, to say the least.

Straightening, I scooted to the edge of the bed, framing him in the V of my legs. My heels upraised, the balls of my feet on the floor, Leon nestled between my thighs… we probably looked like the cover of a sordid novel.

Our kiss, when it came, was brutal. I caught his lower lip between my teeth, biting, our mouths locked in something almost more snarl than kiss. His lips were bruised to fullness by the time we parted. My lipstick smears were like knife gashes across both our faces. He palmed my tits gently, then less gently, squeezing my soft flesh while I fed him savage kisses. We somehow removed my pantyhose; I don’t remember how. His hand snuck between my legs, pushed my panties aside to push his long, slim fingers into me. I was soaked, dripping with it. It felt good. It felt more than good, but before long Leon had worked his way down my body again to the thing we both wanted.

He dragged his face across my bare thigh. I shivered. The smoothness of his shave had worn rough with the lateness of the hour. He mouthed at my cunt through the sopping lace of my panties. A bolt of heat seared right though the molten center of me. I don’t even remember him taking my panties off. I *do* remember the slice of his sky-blue pupils beneath his lashes as he lowered his mouth to me and licked his way inside.

The thing is, Leon always ate pussy like a starving man, like my pussy was his last meal on earth, like he was racing the clock and wanted to go to his grave with the taste of me on his tongue. He was joyful with it, unabashed, devoured me with a dive-in-with-both-hands-and-come-up-face-drenched enthusiasm. He liked eating pussy more than he liked getting his cock sucked, liked it almost as much as he liked playing with my tits. He could lick me out for hours and probably had, on a couple of occasions, come close.

With every minute that passed I began to feel increasingly empty, drenched and throbbing, the ache of it sweet at first and then sharp and then, in short order, unbearable. My pussy throbbed relentlessly. I needed to either get fucked or die. There were, in that moment, no other options.

I hauled him upright to his knees again, begged him to fuck me while I fumbled at the button of his pants. He barely had time to haul his dick out before I had shoved him inside me. It was *glorious*. He immediately began fucking me with single-minded purpose, rutting into me like an animal while I moaned uncontrollably. Couldn’t have stopped myself if I’d tried. I ground my hips into his, chasing friction and pressure, chasing his cock on every retreat, spreading myself open on every thrust. When I kissed him, I could taste myself in his kiss, smell my slick on his face.

Almost of their own will, my arms came around him as he laboured inside of me, his thighs straining. Heat crept up my neck; sweat beaded at my temple, matting tendrils of hair wildly to my brow. I could feel the heat of his body through his crisp shirt, smell his woodsy cologne and the mix of musk and sex underneath it.

“You feel *so good*,” I whispered into his ear, stroking his hair, gripping his shoulders. Hanging on for the ride. I slipped one hand under his shirt to drag my nails down his lean back. Took his earlobe between my teeth and bit down, sharp.

“Oh *fuck*,” he choked out, and came.

*

Later, after we’d scrubbed off the lipstick and lay tangled in a mess of sweaty limbs and cheap cotton-blend sheets, I curled up against him, closing my eyes. “Say something sweet to me, please, babe. In German.”

He rolled over, fitting my back to his chest and slung his arm around my waist, murmuring something soft.

“What does that mean?” I asked sleepily.

I felt his lips curve into a wicked smile where they were pressed just under my ear. “It means, ‘Cash or credit card?'”

His thump, when I shoved him off the bed, was almost as satisfying as the sex. (But not quite.)

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/cgn6b5/finally_seeing_him