[FM] In my first year of University, I fucked a much older married man in his home.

I chose the name Cartolina for this account. It means postcard. I made it because I wanted to share some stories from my past and eventually, from my present. So these are my dirty postcards to you. I’ll call myself Cat, and I’ll be changing the names of everyone involved. But I will make sure details are as true to my recollection as possible.

I was 19, and a few weeks into my first term at University. Young Cat is 5’5”, slender but wide-hipped with very short black hair and glasses, wears short shorts or tight jeans and oversized band tees (yes, I was embarrassed about my small tits), and has a perky round butt she’s lowkey very pleased with. I had settled into a little group of friends from my course which included Dan, a guy with designs on being a street artist.

With Dan came John. Dan was very dyslexic, and John was his note taker. We used to sit together in the canteen and chat about John’s past as a paramedic. I’d have judged John to be well over 50, but I was very young, and I don’t know how I’d perceive him with the gaze I have today. I do remember he was over 6’ tall, and to my mind, handsome with salt-and-pepper stubble and distinguished grey hair. His smile was kind. That was the first thing that struck me. When he looked at you, and he didn’t just look at me this way, there was a radiating warmth in his eyes. You wanted to smile back.

And yes, John was married, according to the modest silver band he wore. I wouldn’t know I was feeling the attraction as this point, but in hindsight I definitely ached a little when I noticed the ring. I hadn’t put two and two together on the attraction of older, wiser men yet.

While our group had lunch, John and I would regularly retreat into our own little world, sharing perspectives and opinions. I really loved hearing what he had to say about life. It made me excited for my own future. And I did get more and more curious about working in medicine in some capacity, the more he told me about how intensely fulfilling it had been. I wanted to know more, and after a couple of weeks of chatting, there was an invitation to dinner at his house.

Which became a regular event. Every Wednesday or Thursday I’d head round to eat a stew with John and Miranda (I’m never, ever going to tell you why I chose this name, but there was a Reason). To me, Miranda looked older than John, her hair brown and grey, wispy. I did think she was beautiful, though. There was that kindness in the eyes, again. Miranda and I got on just about as well as I did with John. She was still working as a nurse, and had plenty of wisdom of her own to dish out, along with some opinions I found… dicey, to say the least. But we had fun, our little gang. Their two kids were off at University as well, and I got regular stories of their exploits, generational questions, “you have to meet them when they come back for summer”, and so on.

I got more and more into dressing up for our dinners, as well. I went to Next and bought a couple of cute dresses, and I put more attention into my makeup before going round. I wanted to look nice for them. I wanted to be as special a part of their week as they were mine.

One evening, we were hanging out in the kitchen while Miranda cooked. I had a new black dress on that came down to my knees and cinched around my waist. And out of nowhere, Miranda made me feel like shit. She put a hand on my tummy and asked if I was gaining weight.

I felt about two inches tall. I put so much effort into looking nice for them and that was the first comment she gave about my appearance. I think I mumbled “I don’t think so”, and looked at John instinctively. His face had already creased into sympathetic embarrassment. He knew it wasn’t okay. John was on my side. But knowing me, I was already trying to forget about it and pass it off as a mistake on Miranda’s part, Miranda who was always so lovely and supportive of me. But I felt exposed, judged, and on display. It had cut me down. More than it would have today. I regarded that as the moment when the sheen began to wear off my first grown up friendship.

A few minutes later, Miranda carried some plates into the next room, and John kissed me. He grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me hard and slid his tongue into my mouth and I kissed him back while my heart just fucking raced. It’s quite possible I let out the tiniest squeal of shock. I wasn’t ready for that, but as soon as it was happening, I knew I wanted it. His stubble was scratching my chin. For just a few seconds we were hungrily locked until he reeled back to the saucepan, stirring nonchalantly with his head down while I struggled to shut my mouth.

Dinner continued as normal with the smallest exception that my body was on fire. I was very wet and probably visibly blushing for the next half hour, the conversation proceeding as normal. Once, John and I shared maybe ten seconds of eye contact, as his face blossomed into that warm smile and I very nearly began to squirm in my chair.

At the end of these nights, it was standard for John and Miranda to drive me home together. Tonight, Miranda was on call, and her pager went off. Maybe that’s why John risked kissing me when he did – he figured we might end up alone together. I never got the chance to ask, but that’s how it turned out. She was out of the door in five minutes, with us hurriedly clearing the plates behind her. I knew he’d be on me the second his hands were free, and I knew how fucked up it was. And yes, I cared that we were hurting Miranda. But all of me wanted this.

I waited for him on the sofa. He came out of the kitchen and sat down next to me, and we were kissing again, his hand cradling my jaw, fingers brushing my short-cropped hair behind my ear. I squirmed against him and whimpered into his mouth, and gripped his knee for dear life. His hand glided down to search my torso, my back arching to push into his touch. My hands scrambled over his shirt and got a few buttons undone, fanning my fingers out in his chest hair and feeling his warm skin as he breathed. His lips found my neck, and I’ve learned since this experience to be careful about letting people kiss my neck: I wanted him inside me so badly that as I mewled and wailed I hitched up my dress and pulled my underwear down to my ankles, kicking them off on the floor, and leaning my knees wide with one foot up on the sofa cushion to spread myself for him. He was kissing and licking my neck relentlessly, and I could barely make sounds as my mouth formed the words “touch me” over and over.

He didn’t stop kissing my neck. His middle finger pushed inside me and twisted in and out. My clit wanted attention but I was so grateful to be fucked by a single finger in that moment. I cradled his head with both my arms, resting my cheek in his beautiful silver hair as I let myself moan loudly, my hips rising and falling with each press inward.

After some time I grasped at his cock and fully gripped the hardness through his trousers. He pulled away almost immediately. He knelt on the floor and crouched his head between my thighs, kissing my clit over and over, his hot breath blowing over my skin. His tongue slid between my labia. His hands reached upwards to stroke my tummy and reach further to my breasts, and I pulled my dress up and over my head, reaching back to undo my bra, and letting myself be naked for him. His hands searched my body as he hungrily made out with my pussy, tongue-fucking me, sucking my clit, steady and attentive no matter how greedily I humped his face and grasped at his hair. A finger returned to fuck me, then two, his mouth working my clit relentlessly. I could feel it so close, my shoulders hunched around my ears, grasping a clump of his hair in my fist and the other marking the sofa forever as nails dragged across the arm. I may have said “I’m cumming” –  I think my mouth tried to make the words, and I’m never sure if I’m actually saying it or not. I needed to push him off me the second the orgasm happened, and it felt like it went on for a while. I know I was shuddering and letting out sporadic, uncontrolled screams. I don’t doubt that someone heard me.

It was a couple of minutes of panting and trying to focus my eyes and get my breath back, and somewhere in between my vision filling with spots and my heart rate returning to normal, John had stood up and undressed. Between my legs there was a dark patch on the sofa. “I’m sorry” I mumbled, brushing it with my fingers. I looked up and saw his substantially hairy figure standing over me, his cock hard and… significant. I reached up and stroked it with my fingertips, before grasping and massaging the shaft more committedly. “Do you want me to…” I said nervously. I wanted to. I wanted it in my mouth, to give back what he’d given me. “I don’t have a condom” he said. “That’s… fine” – I shouldn’t have said that’s fine. I promise I’m not always this thoughtless. I hadn’t fully considered what he meant, that he wanted to fuck me, but as soon as I’d said it he was kneeling down and I was spreading open for him again.

I slid down a little and hugged my knees. He pushed inside me and I squealed through clenched teeth at his girth. He asked if I was okay and I just nodded with unrestrained eagerness. “Fuck me, please” – peaking in pitch and transforming into a continuous pleading moan as his cock sank into me repeatedly. I looked down and in this position I could see its length as he drew it back out and filled me again, glistening with my juices in the low light. I mewled and moaned and ran my hands all over his chest and belly, massaging his body hair and feeling his sweat coat my fingers. He was fucking me harder now, wide open and soaking wet for him, I could hear the slapping sound as his hips hit my arse. His hands found my torso too, and he clung to my breasts with both hands as he leaned into me, his weight pushing me into the cushions. We locked eyes in mutual grimaces of adoration and need; maybe he’d sized me up for this from the get-go. Maybe he draws student girls into his world all the time. What if I wasn’t the first? Was I special? The doubts swelled in my mind as I stared at his sweat-soaked face and indulged in the pleasure of this warm, caring, mature man indulging in my young body.

And while these thoughts were swirling, I missed the build to his orgasm. He stopped moving and pushed inside me to the hilt, and I felt him pulse as he began to cum. I hadn’t meant to let it happen and as quickly as I could, I lurched back, reaching down to grab his cock and let him cum on my skin instead. I was sure I’d made it in time, a few heavy spurts shot over my tummy, warm, pooling in my navel. I sat up a little and gravity did its work, and I mashed the ooze with my free palm, smearing it against my skin to stop it running onto the sofa. His groans turned to laughter; “sorry” he chuckled, breathlessly. I leaned forward and looked down just as his first shot trickled out of my pussy and straight on to the sofa cushion.

And what ensued was a brief mutual panic. At him cumming inside me, at the betrayal that had occurred, at the fact that his sofa cushions were smeared with bodily fluids. I helped him clean up as best I could, and then he simply flipped the cushion over and promised he’d get them dry-cleaned later. We did kiss some more, too, and we both seemed invested in things staying positive and respectful, but I could see the guilt and regret on his face already. He drove me home, and we didn’t say much. I mustered up the courage to ask him what we should do next. He said “I don’t know”.

The next week, I didn’t get invited over. At lunch, he sat on the other side of the table from me, occasionally flashing me a little smile. I don’t know what I’d been expecting. I don’t know what he told Miranda. I got myself checked and figured I dodged a bullet. Maybe he got the cushions cleaned, maybe she saw the nail marks in the sofa and knew, maybe he broke down and told her. Maybe he didn’t. Next term, Dan had a different note taker.

Was it worth it: judge for yourself. I felt the three of us had a fun friendship that we broke for about half an hour of sex. I still masturbate to the memory of that night regularly. Now I’m in my 30s and I am not crying over whether we could’ve been friends. We both fucked up, but it’s in the distant past now, and knowing myself as I do, I wouldn’t trade slutty memories like this for anything.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/voyjnm/fm_in_my_first_year_of_university_i_fucked_a_much