(part I)
On the eve of my 21st birthday, back in 2019, I went out to celebrate with my friends. Shortly after midnight, we all got in line at a bar, where I dramatically flashed my ID (and received a short but sweet “happy birthday” from the bouncer). I hadn’t ever been to a bar or a club, so I took in the sights and sounds, and people-watched while my best friend bought me a blowjob (the beverage, don’t be gross). On my first look-around, I made eye contact with an incredibly tall man seated at the corner of a booth with a group of friends. I squirmed a bit: I felt like my outfit had been painted on, with my skintight black jeans, and a tight gray top with a deep see that showed most of my lace-covered tits. I squirmed, but maintained eye contact. This guy was so hot, and also looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place him at the time.
My friends and I wandered downstairs and found a little table to drink our drinks and plan out the rest of the night, and it dawned on me: I did know the guy from upstairs. I had matched with him on several dating apps, made very preliminary plans with him, but we never confirmed them. I immediately pulled out my phone and texted him: “*Hey, did I see you upstairs, like, 10 minutes ago?*”
He responded in the affirmative, and asked: “*Where are you now? I want to say hi.”*
My friends had no clue what was going on (in a panic, I didn’t tell them I saw him), so as he was coming down and I told them, “*Hi sorry this guy I know from Tinder is here and he’s coming to say hi”*
Our group meet was sweet and successful; he was British, formerly on the rowing team (see: Big Muscles and Big Accent), and worked in tech (another favorite Attribute of mine). My friends excused themselves to get more drinks, and left the two of us alone. We talked a little more, but the crowd was just loud enough that we could barely hear each other – so he pulled me onto his lap. I snuggled in (okay, I rubbed against him a little), and he set his gigantic hands on my thighs. We continued our conversation more comfortably, given we didn’t need to yell anymore. Our conversation dwindled slightly, and he leaned down and whispered soft compliments in my ear, quiet yet firm expressions of his lust.
Needless to say, I accepted his invitation to have sex that night. He came to my apartment, and we went straight to my bedroom. He leaned down for that initial kiss, but our height difference made me almost topple over trying to wrap my arms around his neck. He picked me up and settled me on his lap, and we continued our little make-out session. I straddled him as he tore at my shirt; as he bit my neck and collarbones, he unclasped my bra – caught my tits as they fell from their corset-like bindings. I leaned forward, let him bury his face between my breasts; his late-night stubble chafing every inch of my skin, leaving light pink abrasions.
Slight pain like that turns me on like nothing else: long, thick fingers rubbing and squeezing, short, sharp whiskers burning. I clumsily grappled for his belt, desperate to undo his jeans and feel how hard I knew he was. He roughly pushed my hands away and held them down at my sides: “*Not yet. Don’t move your arms.”*
I did as I was told, urgently rocking my hips against him as he played with my tits. Every suck on my nipple, I dug my nails into my legs; every bite, I scraped my nails up and down my thighs – desperate to prolong the fleeting pain.
He let up, eventually, and I pushed him onto his back, finally allowed to move my hands and touch him. I unbuckled his belt as I leaned over him to kiss down his neck and chest, letting my hair drape onto him. I reached to unsnap his jeans and looked up at him: *”Tell me what you want me to do”*
He instructed me to suck his cock (in his delightful British accent), which I gladly did. I gently undid his jeans and pulled his cock out, eager to get my mouth on him. He threaded his fingers through my hair, and tangled the strands around, getting a firm hold on me. I sank my mouth onto him, just barely past the tip. I retreated quickly, and licked up and down, never giving him the suction and pressure I knew he needed. His fingers tensed and released in my hair constantly, but I continued my tease, refusing to suck, refusing to sink my mouth down until I heard him verbally beg for what he needed.
When he did, I relented – and let him fuck my face. Every stroke hit the back of my throat, tears streamed down my face, my lips felt on the verge of splitting.
Right before finishing, he pulled out, wanting to fuck my pussy. His brutal treatment of my mouth left me dripping, leaking onto my thighs – his cock slid in quickly, just one sharp thrust. He fucked me, almost unbearably deeply. I needed relief from the pressure, almost instantly; I begged him to sit up, to give me that exact angle I needed to get off.
He laughed at me, telling me how much he enjoyed listening to me whine. He told me just to wait a while longer – that he wanted to hear more begging.
Again, I did as I was told, but felt horrifically frustrated – my orgasm just out of reach – denied by an arrogant giant who refused to do *my* bidding.
He did relent eventually: he sat up, I finally got the friction I needed to finish – and I tightened and squeezed him until he came, too.
We fell asleep for a few hours together, but other than that, our interaction was really just a one-night stand – alternatively: a birthday gift to myself.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/m0zxov/i_22f_went_through_a_phase_of_sexual_excess_mf
Well written and sexy!