I enjoy writing erotica but had never really written non-fiction. When I met my current partner that all changed. This was the first story I wrote about us, our first time together…
To believe that life was fair would be a gross misstatement, it is without a doubt the luck of the draw. But to those of us who can be seen as having ‘normal’ lives, do we have the ability to carve our own luck?
I believe in karma. Not implicitly, more in theory. I believe that doing the right thing will in turn lead to more right things occurring. Naturally there are many, many examples of this not being true in life but that is why I said not implicitly. It works when it works, as they say.
In the past, I have found that the scales of happiness veered momentarily into the darkness before springing back to light. Since emerging from the darkness I have been renewed as a man who has, well, seen the light.
Simply put, I am happy.
And with happiness comes positivity.
And with positivity comes the confidence that you can make your own luck, you are invincible.
So we come to a recent Sunday, a solitary day, my entire weekend quiet as it was bookended by two dates, a successful one on Friday that ended with a kiss that was almost trivial in obtaining given my confidence, and another on Monday that would later be rescheduled then cancelled.
My sister sent me a message. She had been telling her good friend, who I had heard much of, about my ex-cellent adventures and this ‘mysterious group’ I was a part of. The good friend wanted to know more. This was not something I was going to share with my sister, I explained, it being bad enough I had to tell my family about my sexual interests without letting them know where to find me.
“So,” I said to my sister, “give her my number and tell her to ask me directly.”
She introduced herself shortly after. It was nine in the evening.
By midnight she had called me on the phone, begging me to let her orgasm. It was the first time I’d heard her voice.
I refused. Made her wait precious, agonising seconds.
“Five… Four…”
I almost whispered the words, my heart in my throat, my hand around my cock.
“Two…”
Her voice was intoxicating, each little moan almost trembling with need.
“Okay, you can come,” I said with as much calmness as possible. She did, and I shivered with arousal hearing it.
We said our goodnights and I hung up the phone. Thirty seconds later I was fountaining over myself with sticky, pearly strings that shot so far they hit the cushions I was laying on.
I am aware that I have left out three hours of conversation, potentially leaving out important information such as the basic details of discussing our interests, how naturally it all felt – old friends renewed, our limits, and arranging a meeting in person, but I just love how that start-skip-to-end sounded in my head and couldn’t help being a little devious in chronicling the details.
You will find as you read this I will become more and more unreliable, my account muddled with the memory of time, trying to remember how the body feels while at its most vulnerable and least cognisant, lost as it is in base feelings and wrapped in a mind of two: to feel or to think.
It does not help that the longer I take to write this, the more we grow and the ideas tumble out of me like unrestrained avalanches, and I could likely write a series by this time already, but I won’t unless she specifically asks me to keep writing of us, which I would gladly then do.
If nothing else, this will remind me of a beginning, much like keeping a ticket stub for a concert (or in my case a simple list of bands I’ve seen live). And to continue the analogy, I am not one to stand at the gig recording the full thing for posterity, I would rather enjoy the show there and then.
As I said, we got on from the start. It felt like we’d known each other longer – likely due to my sister talking to each of us about the other many times over the months – and to sound saccharine, it felt right. At no point did either of us feel the situation was out of control, it flowed much like a steady river that had carved its niche and knew its course.
Cue two days of teasing and talking while trying to remain sensible and focused at work, which I will shorten majestically for you by simply saying let us skip ahead to Wednesday evening.
You can thank me later.
We met at a coffee shop, where I got tea because I don’t like coffee – ha, irony be damned.
She had been there ten minutes when I messaged to say I was sitting waiting, our paths crossed without even realising, two teas bought, no steam rising due to the acrid Belfast heatwave we’d been experiencing. She sat opposite me, her shy smile a feature I was instantly drawn to, occasionally hidden behind a hand, a wrist, or when she bowed her head as if to try to hide within her own body.
We talked of work, of family and friends, of the hurtful past. She wore her pain upon her body, nothing hidden, bare to my sight; I respected the boldness, found it spoke volumes of her inner character. She may act shy, may perhaps even be shy, but she is not afraid.
In turn, I found myself bold in asking her intentions. What was this? From discussion, I did not get the impression she wanted a casual arrangement. Some of the things she desired of me required my voice alone to speak to her, others would simply confuse matters. I explained my end goal: A relationship where kink is not only celebrated but explored, with intimacy and connection as a base.
No labels for now, but good to be on the same page, lest we read a choose your own adventure where one ends up losing the plot.
Seated opposite me, I found her entirely too far away and asked her to come round the table, to sit beside me. I put my arm around her shoulders, let her shyness nuzzle against me, felt the role of protector coming naturally.
There was more talk, a little more risqué in our whispered huddle as those around us vanished. I asked her about something she’d said on Sunday, she didn’t want to say, was too embarrassed. I offered her a secret of my own, jokingly suggested I should get a kiss in return as well as her response. She was agreeable, with the caveat that she was a terrible kisser; a baseless lie I would quickly extinguish through time.
Turning her head up to mine, we kissed. And when we parted her head was still bowed, her neck exposed, so I kissed there too and elicited such sweet little trembles and sounds as to drive a man to wildness.
I cannot recall how much we kissed, talked and held each other, suffice to say it was electric, and our lips and skin touched upon each other as easily as lifetime friends saying farewell. Until, with my hand upon the back of her slightly bowed neck, my lips softly against her ear, I whispered that I wanted to take her home with me.
After a moment to compose herself, to hold the tremble within her voice, she replied: “Would you make me a cup of tea?”
Of course I would.
Walking to my house, we linked hands. I couldn’t help shivering, imperceptibly so, likely never noticed by her unless she was acutely paying attention.
Some might find it funny but, as much as I am incredibly kinky to the point it could almost be called perverse, I am also an old romantic: A hand, a touch, a kiss, a look. These are things that send shivers down my spine just as much as a swish of leather upon pale skin turned ruby-red or an eager mouth upon my cock.
Talk turned to name preferences. I knew from previous conversations that she described her disposition as submissive with elements of little, so naturally I gravitated towards Daddy. It had always been my favoured name. I was not a Sir, nor a Master, I did not have the strict, business-like control to deserve such monikers. But a Daddy, who with one hand cared and protected, with the other slapped away disobedience, that always appealed to me.
Her favourite was Kitten. I admit I found it unusual. I’d heard of using pet but never kitten. I tried it out, spoke the word, still found it a little strange. I asked of pet instead but she was staunch in her opinion: she would be my kitten
And so it was, and I have grown to like it quite easily. She is kitten-like in that she is playful and cute, yet also maniacally vicious and evil. But in a good way, as all cat owners might make you believe while covered in claw marks from elbow to wrist.
Although I did not realise it until writing this now, this should have been a brief introduction to the fact my kitten has claws, which she would reveal to me another night after I had (accidentally, then intentionally) tortured her mercilessly with vibrations.
When we arrived at my house, her first instinct was to explore. She apologised as she picked up CDs, something which I would quickly try to explain was not to be done unless she had done something wrong. An apology meant something to me, I did not accept them lightly, nor hear the word idly.
The tour of my house was not so brief as to ignore mention. She saw the pets in my living room, the abandoned room that now housed my weights and clotheshorse, the bathroom (“You have a bath!”), my own sanctuary of a room with my computer and bookshelves – my home away from home where I can simply sit and unwind with music and writing, the bedroom where she beelined for the queening box in the corner, eyes lighting up as I pulled open the drawer beneath my bed and revealed my toy collection.
Returning downstairs, we had our tea, talked side by side upon the sofa. The topic that I remember most vividly was her warning, an admission of me being full-on, that I shouldn’t be so quick to decide what I want, that there could come a time when I would get ‘the crazy’ or ‘the sad’. The crazy would be my need to sleep around. The sad would be my desire to return to the happy past of an ex’s touch.
All this made me realise is that, contrary to how close we had been acting, she really didn’t know me all too well, and I looked forward to letting her see the real me in time.
“I know what I want.”
I’d experienced casual and sure it was nice but it had no longevity to it. There was never going to be any substance to keep me happy.
As for the past, well, the past was dead. Or reborn anew as a shuffling zombie, depending on your perception of personality shifts.
To keep things coherent, a conversation would crop up much later that night that put things into perspective. I don’t remember exactly what she said, more that it was as if she had told me the solution to a puzzle I’d been stuck on. I was not full-on, I had offered exactly what she wanted, she simply feared that I couldn’t – or wouldn’t at some point – stick to it.
Essentially, she didn’t want me to offer the world if I could only deliver a cheap timeshare island off the coast of Morocco.
But I suppose I should start writing some sex at this point, if only to justify labelling this an erotica. Perhaps I have tried to be a little more generous with explaining around the sex here because, although I won’t deny a large part of our short time together has been sexual, it is not all I want from her, my kitten, I want the before and after, the lulls and the calms.
But, you know, sex and stuff, lets get to that.
“I want to take off your trousers, pull them down and suck your cock.”
That was her response when I asked her to tell me what she wanted to do right that moment. I got her to kneel before me, went to help unbuckle my belt only for her to bat my hand away. She wanted that task for herself, to earn it.
After shimmying free of my trousers, I sat there in boxers with my trapped erection plain to see. She danced around it, traced the outline of my boxers with kisses and touches, kissed upon my cock through the fabric, finally let it loose as it sprang upright before her eager eyes.
Her mouth and lips were upon it, taking me in, deeper until she gagged a little and pulled back, went back for more, her hands touching and rubbing around my balls and thighs and up to my stomach and chest. When she pulled back she left a trail of saliva from my shaft to her lips that snapped in mid-air, its trajectory lost as I got distracted with her happy sounds of enjoyment.
“You have the most suckable cock ever.”
I don’t remember when she first said it, so I’ll just add it in now. As someone who has admittedly had a bit of self-confidence issues, especially around my cock, this compliment was beyond incredible. When she says it I find myself wanting to shove it in her mouth and make her swallow her words in desire and reverence.
Gently gripping her hair, I pulled her off my cock, kissed her deeply, told her I wanted to see how wet she was. She resisted, said ‘no’, her voice playful, mischievous, daring me to correct her.
I stood up, pulling her up alongside me, bent her forward until her top half landed on the sofa yet she remained standing, legs together, before pulling down her underwear even as she continued to defy me by saying no.
“Tell me I can touch you,” I demanded.
“No.”
The crack of my hand against her ass cheek reverberated around the room, followed quickly by her yelping with surprise.
“Tell me I can touch you.”
“No,” her voice wavering ever so slightly.
Two more cracks, a fast-paced one-two against first left then right cheek. She nearly buckled, kept her balance, remained unflinching in her attempts to withstand me.
I unleashed a barrage of slaps, can’t recall how many before she whimpered, buckled, fell forward onto the sofa.
“It’s yours, daddy,” she said, “it’s yours.”
That was all I needed to be upon her, my fingers touching, my tongue gently flicking, her wetness unbelievably thick and sweet and constant, her pussy soft and warm to the touch. It may have only been seconds before I heard her bleated cry to stop, simply from a desire not to orgasm already, and I relented because I also didn’t want her to orgasm so soon, her defiance deserved to wait.
We took a breather, kissed, talked a little, before I took her upstairs, taking the lead with my hand behind my back so she could take hold and let me guide her upwards.
There is a big gap in my memory here. I am near certain that the next part I will describe was not the first thing we did. I believe there was talk of my pillow (orthopaedic, for my back), of the bed, a period perhaps of kissing and talking and general calm-before-the-storm’ness, a removal of clothes that lay strewn around the floor of my bed, an enticing exploration of perky breasts, a surprise find: a tattoo that danced its way up her side from hip to breast.
Yet it must be that the next part I remember with clarity is saying that I was going to go down on her and, again, she said no. She was shy. She didn’t (but secretly did, always secretly does) want me to just take it.
“Tell me it’s mine to taste,” I said, my tone serious.
“It’s mine,” she said with a pout that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kiss or hit, perhaps a bit of both, though in which order I couldn’t say.
“Tell me it’s mine to taste,” I repeated.
“Nope,” she said with the pout pushed out further. Okay, definitely hit first.
“Tell me it’s mine to taste,” I demanded.
“It’s not,” she lied.
I moved closer to her face, my hand around the side of her face and neck, my eyes steely. “Do not make me keep asking, do not make me punish you again so soon. Tell me it’s mine to taste.”
“It’s not yours,” she said, her eyes aflame and refusing to break contact with mine.
“Last chance,” I said, dripping malice, losing my patience, “tell me it’s mine or I will punish you.”
She said nothing, I took it as an admission of continued rebelliousness and flipped her over onto her stomach, went to my toy drawer and pulled out the rattan cane, light in my hands yet ever so cruel when swung through the air.
“How many times did I have to ask you?” I asked.
“I don’t remember,” she replied. I believed her, her voice more measured, a considered response.
“Five times,” I explained, “so you’ll get five hits.”
Lining it up, without warning, I sped through the air and connected with her cheeks. Her yelp was swallowed up in a scream mixed with surprise and pain. I pulled my arm back, swung it back down and connected in the same place, though it was slightly lessened by the nearby blankets. She instinctively moved her hands to her ass to protect herself. I pushed her hand away, moved the blanket that had got in my way and swung down harder. And again. And a fifth and final time.
At this point she was whimpering so I turned her back around, took my opportunity to get the response I wanted, looked into her eyes that looked as if they wanted to cry, still begging, and asked her who her pussy belonged to.
“It’s yours, daddy,” she said.
If ever I needed any reassurance that my punishment was appreciated, the wetness that coated her thighs was a clear indication. I started there before impatiently claiming what was mine, my tongue upon her wet-washed clit, my hands keeping her thighs apart, her cries echoing out around the bedroom.
She had warned me she was loud and I was getting first-hand experience at her words. I had closed the bedroom window but I still feel the neighbours heard her through an open window in an adjacent room. In truth I didn’t care, I was too engrossed in the wet little treat before me.
Did she orgasm here? That’s the question, I may need to ask her as I don’t remember. As amazing as it is, her next two orgasms that night stuck in my memory more, mostly for their unexpectedness.
We kissed, shared her wetness, before I said I wanted to fuck her. Her pussy was still mine, I wasn’t giving her an opportunity to try to reclaim it as her own. Grabbing a condom, I held myself above her, looked down, held my cock and rubbed it against her opening, slid over the wetness, neither of us really needing this act of tantalisation but my natural inclination deciding she deserved more teasing before I gave her what I knew she wanted.
A single motion, tip to base, fluidly sliding into euphoria with a gasp, a ‘fuck’, and a meeting of lips as I pulled out then pushed back in, her hips grinding against me, her need enough that she was almost frantic in trying to keep me within her, her hair languid and clinging to her face from the heat, the room a sauna of closed windows and easily thirty degrees, our bodies dripping with sweat, my lips on her neck, her ear, whispered moans, a grip of hair, a hold of her neck, a grinding together of bodies as we stuck and slid together.
The heat, it was barbarous and unrelenting and eventually I had to fall to the side for a quick breather, quickly resumed as we spooned, I lifted her leg and pushed myself back in, her hips already grinding, her voice begging me to fuck her, my hand around her neck, her hand wrapping around mine and pushing it into her throat.
Choke her, that hand demanded.
With my left hand I held her throat, with my right I ran my hand under her head and round to the back of her neck. Together I squeezed until my fingers on each hand touched, felt the supple bones of her neck tighten, the skin of her neck taut, her eyes wide but lucid and longing as I fucked and choked her simultaneously, a rasped few words escaping her mouth, lustful adulations.
That damnable heat, my hands were beginning to slip as her neck heated up and it was making my hands itchy. I took my hands away, went up on my haunches while staying inside her still lying frame, leaned forward a little and resumed fucking her while looking down into her desperate eyes.
I must profess at this point I might have been having a slight crisis of fear. I was still going. It had been, well, a considerable amount of time, I was beginning to think I was doomed to not ejaculate even when it all felt So. Fucking. Good. Perhaps it was the condom, I hadn’t worn them in years, wasn’t used to it. Or the simple fact of being with someone else? I put my last failed ejaculation down to only being friends with the person, no intimacy, a lack of substance to get me over the edge. What would be my excuse this time when intimacy and a promise of substance were both available.
A swirling of thoughts, trying to figure myself out, getting lost in mind then in body and the whole thing became a blur where one constant remained: Pleasure
This felt really fucking good.
Okay, no, wait, that tingle.
Fuck.
Yes.
This felt too fucking good. She evidently felt the same way, so loud I would not have been surprised to hear a knock on the door, a police complaint, keep the sex down if you don’t mind sir now have a good night. I covered her mouth but didn’t fuck her any less intensely. If anything, I wanted to feel her loud moans against my hand as they tried to escape around my fingers.
I was not going to stop it. I pressed into her body, pumped hard, slightly slower thrusts as I bubbled over the top and exploded into the condom, nearly losing my balance on top of her, her hands reaching out to help me.
We collapsed together, a sweaty hot mess, neither of us caring.
Removing the condom, I decided without much thought to pour it over her. With the heat it had already become quite slippery so it simply spilled over her body, impossible to easily clean up, I could only manage to scoop a little bit for her to suck off my fingers.
She would wear that, sex and sweat clinging to her body, all the way home hours later, refusing to wash up, preferring to keep her body covered in our night together.
My arm wrapped around her body, talking resumed and I again profess to not remembering the exact conversations. It may have been at this point that she told me the clue that made me realise I wasn’t being full-on, exclusivity was on the table (or bed, available as room service? I digress).
There was water on the bedside table. I asked for it, took a sip which simply evaporated in my mouth before it could tickle my throat. What was one more thing to pour over her? I tilted the glass, caught her eyes – challenge accepted, go for it they suggested. With an inward shrug I tipped the glass.
It was dark, I couldn’t see, her shriek and jump from the bed, petering into laughter as she explained I’d poured more than a drip, but she’d saved the bed that was the important thing. The bed covered in sweat and sex, yet water was the worry. I found her reaction cute.
And perhaps a little arousing, for when she left to wipe herself down in the bathroom I found myself standing, following, meeting her halfway between bedroom and bathroom in the upstairs hallway, where I pressed her against the wall with one hand behind her, playing with her ass cheek that would have bruised nicely come the morning, my other hand in her slick hair as I pulled her into a kiss.
Turning her head away, kissing her neck up to her ear, I whispered a thought I’d had since Sunday and that first conversation.
“I wanted to take every one of your holes as mine,” I said as my hand behind her back bisected her cheeks, brought my fingertip to her asshole and teased, already slick and easily toyed with from sweat and wetness that had dripped down between.
“Don’t,” her reply uttered as a gasp. I knew the sentence without her saying another word. Don’t say that, you know I want it, I won’t be able to resist.
I slipped my fingertip inside, let her moan into my ear before I spoke again.
“Do I need a condom?”
Her voice answered before her brain could think, evident as she trailed the word off: “No…”
It would later transpire that she had never let someone do that without a condom, I was the first. It would not be the last first.
And I’m tempted once more to tackle the subject of intensity. Some might fear the intensity of such a meeting, given that this occurred after three hours of conversation on the phone and around three hours in person, but to again repeat how right this all felt would be an understatement.
It didn’t feel right. It felt *right*.
There are those who talk about love at first sight. About one night stand attraction. About knowing. Why not this? That was my view. I took our compatibility the same way I took my interest in all sex: If it feels right, if my body and mind respond favourably, why not? I had denied myself happiness for years, tried to make an impossible situation palatable through fear of never finding better.
And to sum it all up before returning to the impending anal sex that you’re so eager to read – you kinky bastards – was when she said to me: “Where the fuck have you been all my life.”
My response: “In the wrong relationship, same as you.”
In a nutshell there.
Bringing her to the bedroom again, I pushed her onto the bed where she fell on her stomach. I followed after, put my hands under her hips and pulled her up onto her hands and knees, where I proceeded to immediately throw my face into her ass and lick with such fervour that her legs buckled and I had to pull her back up before continuing.
She had said that ass licking wasn’t huge for her, nice but not essential to try to categorise it, she’d rather give than receive, so it was with great surprise – to both of us I think – that she suddenly exclaimed she was going to have an orgasm and could she please, please come. I don’t think I could’ve stopped her so I said she could, caught off-guard by the suddenness of it all.
In later conversation she would explain that it was because she realised how much I wanted it that she got turned on and, in turn, ended up having an orgasm.
She had an orgasm over nothing more than knowing I was enjoying it.
I may have pinched myself once or twice, just to be safe.
I had to have her after knowing that. I pulled her back up onto her knees, positioned myself and pushed into her ass. It was slippery, difficult to manoeuvre, I fell out once or twice before finally gaining purchase and sliding inside until every inch of me was buried inside her. It was still a little difficult due to the sweat and heat so I flipped her over, pushed her legs back a little and pushed inside, inelegant but no less welcomed.
We looked at each other, her head nodding, her eyes pleading, her hair matted upon her head, sweat dripping down her neck, no more words until…
“I’m going to come,” she said, utter shock and surprise in her voice. She could not believe that her body was responding this way, which I found incredibly empowering and only led me to fuck her harder.
“Then come for me,” I demanded. There was no way I was going to refuse this one, I wanted her to become a puddle before me, to lose herself to me.
Her ass bucked up against my cock and I did everything I could to keep my rhythm through her wildness. When certain she had definitely came, I lost myself, felt the onrush of an ejaculation, pushed as deep as I could, wanting it to fill her so deep she’d be leaking memories of it the next day.
After I had wiped myself down a little, we talked some more and, eventually, reluctantly, it was time to leave. She gave me her underwear after admitting the same idea of me keeping them, which I may have occasionally checked the next day to see if they still smelled of her.
They always did.
Hand in hand I walked her home, innocence personified to the world at large, a rippling undercurrent of kinkiness as she reminded me she wasn’t wearing underwear, as I casually lifted up her skirt and touched her naked pussy, let her skirt fall as we embraced and kissed.
Had I not already came twice, I would have gladly taken her there and then in the past-midnight air that was warm yet cooling compared to the baking bedroom we had left.
At her door she nearly fell when leaning forward, I caught her, we kissed, said goodbye and I walked home, only nearly getting lost because I hadn’t fully been paying attention to the route.
“Home safe and sound. Night night kitten x.”
“Nightnight daddy, I’m about to get all snuggled up! Thank you again for everything!”
I slept blissfully.
And I could say this was the end of the story but again, it’s just the beginning, so in an effort not to end this in any definitive way I will simply leave you with a message she sent me the next day, a message that got my heart racing and blood flowing, a message that simply reminded me that everything we did was okay.
“You left a bruise and cane marks on my ass. It’s… delicious.”
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/cl1qkj/a_little_adventure_mf