The Quickest of Quickies and the cum stained dress (28f) [MF]

Quickies. Sexually speaking, the fastest possible route from point A to point B. Or, A to O if you’re lucky.

While it’s true that quickies very rarely offer the same levels of satisfaction as their longer and more steadily paced sexual counterparts, I must confess that I’m very much a fan of them. There’s something about the sheer urgency and immediacy of a quickie that the common or garden sexual escapade simply cannot replicate. It’s helped that, at least in my experience, it’s due to their almost entirely spontaneous nature. A quickie is the definition of leaping into an opportunity with both legs wide open, so to speak.

But, tragically, not every quickie can be the stuff dreams are made of, and embracing opportunities for spontaneous and occasionally ill-judged excitement can result in a less than satisfying conclusion.

Which brings me to this; a tonally appropriate but uncharacteristically quick anecdote about the quickie that was a little too quick.

(Is it just me, or has the word quickie lost all meaning already? I’m almost tempted to replace it with the word ‘quiche’ somewhere within this post just to see if anyone notices. You have been warned!)

–

A student bar. The altogether familiar kind in which floors were sticky, the drinks were cheap, and the prospect of a sexual acquaintance was rarely further than an offer of a few rounds away. And very much the sort of setting in which my nineteen year old self was found regularly.

I’d recently broken up with a boyfriend and was making the most of my newfound single life. Which is to say I was on the prowl and somewhat eager to explore new options having endured several months of increasingly vanilla (lack of) adventures.

In truth, I can remember exceptionally little about the guy who approached me beyond the fact that he was studying something to do with history – I recall remarking to him that he was ‘surprisingly good looking for an archeologist’, him politely informing me that he wasn’t ‘that kind of historian’, and, minutes later, me remembering Indiana Jones exists, and telling him that ‘he was no Harrison Ford, but he’d still definitely do.’

I don’t remember his name. But for the sake of this anecdote I’ll call him Peter Uram if for no other reason that cryptic crossword fans will enjoy the foreshadowing.

His seduction technique consisted of little more than being vaguely handsome and buying me two drinks. Though, full disclosure, I was of the mind that night that just one would have been enough. I’d told a friend during the illustrious ‘pre-drinks’ part of the evening that I wasn’t looking to ‘Get Lucky’ as that suggested an element of luck was involved in proceedings. I was simply looking to ‘get some’.

I was many things as a student, but subtle I was not.

As much as I’d like to claim it was Peter’s suggestion that we move from the bar to the bathroom to get things going, I’m absolutely certain it was me. This was, after all, very much the era of the ‘one when out for a warm up, round two when home to round up.’

The toilets of this particular establishment were something of a familiar haunt. Which is to say that, squalid as they were, it hadn’t stopped them becoming a veritable hub of promiscuity. This still being relatively early in the evening, there wasn’t yet the familiar rhythmic gasping or rattling of a cubicle door which was so often the background accompaniment of a late night wee.

We selected our cubical of choice – tragically I did have a favourite. As ridiculous as it sounds there was one with slightly different proportions to the others, and offered a little more in the way of room to manoeuvre – and after an encouraging amount of excellent kissing and some eager wandering hands, I dropped down into a squat position to see what Peter was packing. In almost any other setting I’d have been on my knees but, this being a grotty student bar with unimaginable fluids and substances having been spilled, drizzled, flung and squirted onto the tiles, there was no way I was placing my bare knees upon them.

As it turned out, Peter was packing something of a fireman’s hose; lacking in girth but substantial in length. It sprang out of his boxers to greet me, apparently all ready to go with no additional encouragement on my part. I even let out a little exclamation of both surprise and delight, causing him to grin with barely concealed smugness.

Sadly, he was not to remain looking smug for long.

Unable to contain my eagerness I grabbed Peter’s cock with two hands, intending to give a few encouraging tugs before taking it in my mouth.

And apparently that was all it took.

After mere seconds of firm rubbing with a light corkscrew action – the most basic and introductory of ‘first touch’ routines – the smug look fell from Peter’s face.

He came.

One alarmingly thick spurt of cum launched from his cock. It travelled at the speed of disappointment, and caught me entirely unawares and unable to dodge.

Thanks to my squatting position and the angles involved, the jet of cum struck me square in the chest, just beneath my cleavage. If it hadn’t been entirely involuntary under other circumstances I’d have been commending him for his excellent aim.

Not so on this occasion, however. Because we were in the bathroom of a student bar. And Peter had not only just robbed me of what had been an exciting sexual prospect, but had also deposited a not insignificant volume of cum directly onto my black dress.

While Peter stammered an apology and offered the usual ‘That’s never happened before’ bullshit, I was furiously grabbing for toilet paper in a clearly hopeless effort to save my night out.

It was impossible to miss. A sizeable and utterly unmistakable fresh cum stain, millimetres away from my cleavage.

With all the disdain I could muster, I thanked Peter for a lovely evening – sarcasm feeling far more hurtful than fury in the moment – and left him to mop up his drained and still sadly dripping fireman’s hose.

I stormed out, not even bothering to collect or inform my friends of my misadventure on the way.

Within the hour I was back in a new – and not black – dress. Peter was, wisely, nowhere to be seen.

The evening continued far more successfully. But that is, quite literally, another story. And, given the nature of this particular anecdote, it’s probably appropriate I end prematurely.

It’s neither the time nor place to turn into the Tale of Two Quckies.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/n6hbkd/the_quickest_of_quickies_and_the_cum_stained