In the spring of my junior year of college, I felt a sudden, abrupt (but not wholly unwanted) urge to start hooking up again. Keep in mind, at this point, my only experience with a “hookup” was a poorly-executed car sex incident in the parking lot of my dorm with a classmate the night before a biopsychology exam. It was awkward, and the memory of it often makes me cringe. And looking back, it might have been a cause for my 3 years of celibacy.
But I wanted that experience again. A sexual encounter with someone, preferably someone I knew very little about.
Luckily for me, the sudden resurgence of my sex drive coincided with a week in which I planned to do quite a bit of socializing: my 21st birthday.
The night before I turned 21, I went out just before midnight with two of my friends. We stopped for a little pre-birthday dessert, and I had my “first sip of alcohol” at the stroke of midnight. We moved on to a carnival-themed bar, and the first thing I saw when I walked in (carnival items aside), was an excruciatingly familiar face. He was seated in a booth with a group of friends, and we made instant eye contact. I went through my mental list of men I knew from my classes: “*Not Nick from personality theory… definitely not Jack from jazz band..*.”
We went downstairs to find a booth to sip our drinks in, and I suddenly remembered. It was Max, from Tinder (and also Bumble – I love matching with folks on multiple dating platforms). I had ghosted him a few times, which was a bad move on my part, and even worse – I had no excuse for why I didn’t respond to his messages. But, I still had his phone number, and the blowjob shot coursing through my veins gave me the courage to text him: “Did I just see you upstairs in a booth?”
Five minutes went by and I was absolutely dripping with sweat. I felt excitement, mixed with shame, fear, dread: “What if it wasn’t him? What if he thinks I’m ugly IRL?” “What if he ignores me because I ghosted him?”
My phone buzzed: “That’s me! You just came in, right? Where are you now? I want to say hi.”
Relieved, and also scared shitless, I told my friends what was going on, and politely asked them to move as far away from me as possible. They obliged (though not as far away as I would have liked), and I sat in the little booth and waited for Max to come down. True to his Bumble height information, he was an absolute giant towering above everyone else under 6’7.
I’ll admit it! I love tall men. I had been ghosted a few months prior by a guy I actually had quite a crush on (embarrassing for a Grown Up, I’ll say). He was the tallest guy I had ever “known,” (6’6!) and after getting shunned by him, I felt some bizarre urge to find an even taller guy to see if he would want me. Max most definitely fit the height bill; I had yet to see if he would want me.
I waved at him, and he walked over to my table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my friends watching intently.
He sat down in the booth right next to me. I’d like to emphasize here that he sat RIGHT next to me – thigh-touch and all. Granted, this might just be an artifact of loud bar-like environments, where it’s easier to just sit as close as humanly possible to one another, lest you get caught yelling your words during a break in the music. But, I was delighted.
We talked a bit, mostly generally about ourselves: He works at a tech startup, we went to the same college.
At some point, things got a little…. heated. His hand slowly inched up my thigh; he had grabbed my knee at some point, and just stroked his hand upwards. We started getting cozier in our booth: I don’t remember how it happened, but I stood up to grab something across the table, and simply sat down wrong. “Wrong” meaning I landed squarely in his lap.
Panicked, I tried to get up as quickly as possible. I was even too embarrassed to turn around to apologize – I just kept muttering “God, I’m so sorry, that’s my bad, I’m so sorry.”
Almost immediately, he latched his hands (his Gigantic Bear Paws) onto my hips and gripped them, holding them in place. He dragged me back down from my alarmed half-standing perch, right back onto his delightfully warm lap.
I imagine I my mouth was agape, my eyes unblinking. God knows what my friends saw. Max leaned forward and gently whispered to me that he didn’t want me to move. That he wanted me on his lap.
I’m not ashamed to admit that hearing this (and feeling his hard-on) turned me on. I am, however, ashamed to admit just how much these things turned me on. Pretty sure a dam burst in my panties.
We continued our conversation, though things felt a lot more sexual. Some moments when I spoke, he ran his index finger up and down the column of my neck, around my ear. Don’t even get me started on the “tucking a strand of loose hair behind my ear” thing. It sounds trite and you would think it would actually feel cliché in a real-life application, but apparently I’m the softest of the soft, and I ate every second of that hair-tuck up.
Now that we were so physically close to one another, Max took to whispering everything into my ear. I was on edge. His hands, when they weren’t gently sweeping up my back or across my neck, anchored my hips onto his lap. Even when I squirmed, probably on purpose to grind for some tasteful friction, he kept his hands on me, pinning me. I was losing my mind at the sensations: occasional, feathery touches across my upper body, contrasted with his steely hold across my waist. I couldn’t decide which sensation I wanted more of. I leaned into his soft grazes, while also squirming tirelessly on his lap to feel him place more pressure on my hips.
Finally, I invited him to come over to my apartment later. He agreed to the plan, and about an hour later, he texted me that he was downstairs by the front gate of my building.
I was a nervous wreck. I scuttled downstairs, and let him in. He was seated on a step near the entrance, and when he stood, I suddenly remembered how great our height difference was. I panicked even more.
We walked up to my apartment, and the second I closed my door, he pulled me against him. I was grateful for his making the first move – and pleasantly surprised by the bubblegum he had been chewing. Kissing him was a delight. His lips were so, so, so, soft, and his cheeks and chin were covered with dark brown stubble. He was a polite kisser; not gentle, per se, but not intrusive with his tongue (read: no tonsil hockey). We licked at each other’s lips, nibbled. And, like I expected, when he scraped his chin against my neck while kissing his way down to my chest – my knees wobbled. I heard (maybe felt?) him laugh, and he directed us to my bed.
He sat down on the edge of it, and lifted me so that I straddled his lap, and wrapped my legs around his back and waist. I gently rocked back and forth, up and down, delighting in his frustrated sounds. He wanted a firmer touch, for me to truly grind on him – I did, too, but I loved the torture too much.
I slid slowly off his lap, relishing the friction (almost just humped his thigh on my way down and called it a night), and landed on my knees on the carpet. His hands instantly went to my head and he threaded his ridiculously large fingers through my hair. Not a single inch of my scalp felt untouched. I reached for the button and zipper on his jeans, and looked up for permission. He gave me sort of a strained nod, and a rough, “Please.”
I unbuttoned, unzipped, and pulled his cock out of his pants. I gripped him gently in my palm, and lightly stroked up and down his length. Again, a frustrated groan emanated from the bed: I refused to give him the firm touch he wanted. I leaned forward as he pushed his pants and boxers to the floor, and slowly licked from the base of his cock to the tip. I lingered at the tip and swirled my tongue around, gently dipping into the slit and lapping up any escaping precum. Max tightened his grasp on my hair, restlessly twisting his fingers in the strands.
I continued my gentle licking motions, up and down, up and down – steering clear of actually sucking. I wanted to see how long Max could handle it.
Not that long, it turns out. Max had had enough and wanted to fuck my face. Far be it from me to deny a man for too long. I wrapped my lips tightly around the tip of his cock: I wanted to be in control – at first. I sank down, slowly, my tongue rubbing the underside, my lips stroking his length. That feeling when you get to the base of someone’s dick? And the sound that they make? Either when they see it, or when they feel it? Unmatched.
(Yes, I had been celibate for quite some time, but I had gotten a lot of dick-sucking practice with a former boyfriend).
His dick pressed against the back of my throat, and I accommodated him by swallowing. The discomfort I was feeling was strong, but I didn’t want to stop. I had to see things through.
Max took control. He retreated, and pushed firmly back into my mouth. His pace turned relentless, but again, still polite. He didn’t wildly shove his cock in and out, or tear up my mouth with his movements. He was rough, but civilized. He took his pleasure, but also knew I was enjoying what he was doing.
He asked me where he could come, and I eagerly pointed to my mouth. If sucking dick is in my top 3 favorite sexual acts, swallowing come is probably in my top 2. There’s something so gross, so hot, so “satisfying some of my baser urges” about swallowing someone’s come. He finished in my mouth, and I drank every drop – eagerly, I might add. Part of me wanted some to dribble out of the corner of my mouth, or down my chin, so that I’d have to wipe it up and lick it off my finger. Or, that he’d notice it and wipe it up and have me lick it off his finger. Alas. We got into bed, snuggled into one another, and fell asleep together.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/o7hco0/my_23f_sexual_extravaganza_chapter_1_max_m4f