i [26F] went home with a complete stranger [31M] i’d never spoken to when i was 19

This is one of those stories that i’m happy happened, but can’t quite believe happened. If I could go back in time to my 19-year-old self, I’d say: Be more careful. Take a cell phone. Don’t go home with someone you’ve never exchanged a sentence with, only a sultry look. But also, if I had listened to that advice, I wouldn’t have this story.

Let’s set the scene. I was 19 years old, fresh off a two-year relationship—my first ever. We were each other’s “first” everythings, actually. First love. First time (on the basement couch, while the rest of my family was partying upstairs—but that’s for another story!). We had a wonderful relationship, but parted ways my sophomore year of college.

Which meant *my* sophomore spring of college was everyone else’s freshman fall. I was figuring out who I was with five drinks and a night of freedom, and I was having *fun*. Three weeks after breaking up with my ex, I boarded a plane to northern Greece for a spring break trip to a documentary festival. During the day, we’d watch movies. At night, we’d go to bars that opened late, and only got good at 1 a.m. It was a university town, so the clubs were *teeming* with handsome men my age.

In the middle of the week, we went to a place to dance. Everyone started pairing off, and I was feeling like that one *weird girl* with no one to dance with. That’s when I saw him.

Towering past six feet tall. Jawline sculpted from Olympus. A face that looked intense enough to start a fire, just by staring at a pile of kindling. Tattoos—like his body was a canvas. *That* kind of guy. I was at the age, and the moment in my life, when I thought I could have anyone I wanted, if I was bold enough. Still remember what I was wearing: A long blue skirt I’d bought that day, and a tight white tank. I walked over to him and started dancing. We danced together for a while, but didn’t talk. My friend pulled me away, and then I figured that was the end of the story. Frankly, a dance with Zeus was enough. But the whole time, I was talking about him.

Later, that same friend and I were walking down the spiral staircase to get to the street. The club was at the top of a building. Lo and behold, he was there too, with his friend. This time, when we looked at each other, it was with an understanding: We wanted each other.

He waited for me at the bottom of the stairs. My friend and I exchanged a glance. “Are you sure?” She asked. Maybe it would’ve been better for her to say something more forceful, like: *Uh, wha are you doing? You don’t know him!* Instead, I said I was sure, and then walked off in the opposite direction with him.

I know. Reckless. But for reasons I couldn’t explain, I trusted him—felt calm and buzzing, at the same time. We spoke on the walk to his apartment, which was near the club and the downtown area. He was a tennis player and something else, that I can’t recall; I was a student. He spoke English; I spoke broken Greek.

I wasn’t sure, exactly, what was going to happen—until it happened. We walked into his apartment building and then got into the elevator. The moment the door closed, he pushed me up against the wall, like his whole body was designed for one thing, and that was dominating mine. He began kissing me with a fury that I still haven’t experienced again, and it’s been years. I found myself kissing him back with the same hunger. These were the first lips I’d kissed since my ex. Next to him, I—normally so tall—felt small enough to be taken. He moaned as he pressed against me.

Then the door opened, and we separated with a quick transition back to “behaving.” I strolled into his apartment, not sure if we would would fall together as quickly as they did in the elevator. He gave me a quick tour of the apartment, clean but obviously the place where two guys live. His roommate was gone. Finally, he led me to the couch in his small living room—and nearly leapt on me, ravenous.

I couldn’t believe it. My whole body was participating in his kisses, so intense they bordered on violent. But my mind was wandering: *Is this what freedom is? Can I do this all the time, now?* The inner slut was putting on her ball gown and twirling for the first time. Her coming out ceremony took place in a dingy apartment.

When he kissed me, he tugged on my bottom lip like there was a significant percentage of him that would rather be eating me—but it was still somehow hot. The next morning, my lips were black and blue. My friends made fun of me. I wore ’em like battle scars.

Next thing I knew, my clothes were strewn around the couch, and so were his. Y’all, what a body this man had. I’m a tall girl, and it was lovely to feel completely manhandled. He was broad and strong enough to lift me up and sit on top of him, or throw me off and sprawl. That’s what I remember the most—movement, all of which he controlled.

And I remember his cock, *huge* and thick. It felt unfair that one person could have so many quintessentially sexy qualities (there are many ways to be a sexy person, to be clear! he just fulfilled a few of my personal fantasies). Sitting on top of him, bouncing up and down on the couch like *this* was the right way to sit all along.

The sex was energetic. Olympics level. He did whatever he wanted with me. He turned me around and pounded me from behind, so that I was completely vulnerable to how fast and how hard he wanted to go—and he wanted to go fast and hard. After he came in my mouth, we sat and talked. While tracing the tattoos on his chest, I confessed how young I was, which shocked him. But hey…not enough not to fuck me again.

He begged for me to stay over. To this day, part of me regrets not sleeping with him. But it was 5 in the morning, and I didn’t want my professor to come looking for me and call my parents that I’d been abducted, or something. So, while the sun was coming up, I called a cab and staggered home. I felt his traces on my skin for the next few days—soreness where his fingers digged into my hips, a raw pussy, my lips pulsing and blue. We texted a few times, and then I boarded a plane to go home. If I could, I’d transport him here, now.

Vulnerable is the perfect word to describe the experience. Because I was vulnerable. Young, in a foreign country, with a cell phone that didn’t have service. He could’ve done whatever he wanted to me. Maybe that danger was part of the sex appeal. Looking back, though, I see how badly it could’ve gone. We had NO conversation about consent, and while I was 100% on board, nowadays I doubt that would’ve happened. We barely SPOKE before his cock was inside of me.

Then again, this was one of my most empowering life experiences. To go after something I wanted? To *let myself* be vulnerable? It set the bar for many other experiences with men to come. Now, I see sex as a way of measuring vulnerability; yours and another person’s. It’s important to be aware of *both* people’s levels. Because if you both let yourself be vulnerable and trust each other, you can have the BEST NIGHT EVER!!

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/hyl4h0/i_26f_went_home_with_a_complete_stranger_31m_id