You might think that poetry was a strange profession for a man who treated my arsehole like it was just another room of his house, but what can I say? That was Charlie.
He’d just had a poem published in a collection edited by James Fenton or somebody, and we were celebrating in pretty much the only way we knew how: we were drinking a supermarket-brand knockoff of Southern Comfort and making an unholy mess of my bedsheets. He fucked me til we were both rattling the glass in the windows, splattered with each other’s fluids, and would likely be walking funny for a few days.
Once both of us had chalked up an orgasm or two, and I’d replenished our glasses with Midwestern Discomfort and ice cubes squeezed from a pink, heart-shaped mould from Ikea (yes, I know that they are, therefore, not cubes), one or the other of us proposed a game: the first person too incapacitated with pleasure to complete the requisite five lines of a limerick was the loser. All words had to be sounded coherently with good, Anglo-Saxon diction, and whoever won could, presumably, exert whatever disgusting sexual whims they pleased over the other.
Of course, I do understand that entering into this competition with a man who did this kind of thing for a living wasn’t wise. But by this point I knew Charlie and his proclivities pretty well, and I doubted he’d come up with anything I couldn’t handle. Besides, he was looking exceedingly pretty, and I think I’d just come home from a long and unedifying couple of weeks away, so frankly I was more than primed to have my innards reorganised from any direction he might choose.
We flipped a coin, and I acquired the dubious pleasure of going first.
‘Thinking time counts!’ Charlie said, and without further warning he started playing with my pussy as I scrabbled around in my head for a good first line.
‘*An old man in Windsor once said*
*That he’d not take me into his bed*—’
Charlie drew swooping ovals around my inner lips, not making the schoolboy error of expecting too much too soon. It felt good enough to make me draw breath—particularly as he settled into some slick, two-fingered circles around and just to the side of my clit—but I completed my verse without a hitch.
‘*When I asked him the reason,*
*He said, “Why, it’s treason!”*
*So we fucked in the throne room instead.’*
Charlie snickered at this, which seemed like a reasonable sign of approval—I am very much not a poet, but I do have a disgusting mind—and then very delicately wiped his fingertips on my duvet cover. I warned him that he wouldn’t be invited back.
His cock was semi-hard, thick and as firm as sculpted clay as it lay there, spread across his thigh. I took a sip from my drink and prepared for whatever Charlie had to offer. Then I remembered that thinking time was included, and I made a grab for his cock.
I grasped him firmly in my hand, gently drawing back his foreskin with my thumb, running its tip sideways across the head of his cock and smearing a clinging strand of moisture across it.
‘Get a move on, Charlie,’ I said. ‘You’re about to lose in the first round.’
*’The thing about Lottie’s vagina—’*
‘Risky,’ I said, and bent forward to lick the tip of his cock, slowly and luxuriously with a cool and flattened tongue. He tasted salty and sticky and a little bit like my pussy. ‘Very risky.’
I returned to languorous circles with my thumb.
*’Is all of its downsides are minor.’*
I raised my eyebrows, nodded with fair-minded satisfaction, swooping my hand downward to gently grasp his balls.
*’Though she squirts by the litre,*
*And few things are sweeter,*
*I still think her arse is diviner.’*
I think we all knew this to be the case. Reluctantly, I stopped manipulating Charlie’s cock, which by now was rock-hard, pointing deliciously toward me as he sat on the bed, his legs slung to one side, his weight braced gracefully behind him as he leant on his hands, his sinewy biceps taut and his hair falling into his eyes. Not really in keeping with the spirit of the game, I leant forward to kiss his firm and flat stomach, his sternum, and then his lips. He kissed back, reached up to circle one of my nipples with three fingertips, then reminded me that it was my turn.
He sucked on an ice cube from his drink, looking for all the world like he was generously allowing me some thinking time. My mind was working a little bit slowly, since I was having a hard time not staring at the glistening, dark pink tip of his cock, not so far away from either my hands or my mouth.
‘Alright,’ I said.
*’When I dated a lawyer from Ealing*
*I gave him a curious feeling;’*
Charlie leaned toward me and gathered the flesh of one of my tits in his mouth, running his tongue around my nipple and sucking it, hard. His tongue and his lips were stunningly cold—the point of his little routine with the ice now becoming clear—and I screwed up my face and tried not to yelp or moan. As I gathered my energies and started on the next few syllables, he bit and pulled at my nipple between his teeth, and I closed my eyes and dug my fingernails into my palms.
*’Though his arsehole was tight,*
*By the end of the night*
*We were cleaning his jizz off the ceiling.’*
Charlie exhaled sharply through his nose, but he didn’t take his mouth off my nipple. He went back to sucking, gently, then switched to his tongue, as though trying to moisten every millimetre of the soft skin of my breast, flicking his tongue over my nipple and turning it hard and cold in his mouth. Then he bit it again, and I moaned.
‘Ow, fuck,’ I said. ‘I’ve already finished!’
Charlie leaned back from me, and he lay back on the pillows and sipped his drink, slowly, as though confident that he had all the time in the world, and that I could never so much as make him stutter.
Rising to his bait, I positioned myself between his legs and went back to his cock. I took the tip into my mouth and sucked, hard, then swirled my tongue around and under it. I pulled away and stroked him with a spit-lubed hand.
‘You’re just stalling now,’ I said, and I leaned forward and began to lick and suck his balls as I stroked the warm, wet, hard shaft of his cock.
*’When I dated a woman called Claire—’* he began, which amused me no end. Claire was a classmate of ours from a Master’s seminar; we both found her exceedingly annoying, but had grudgingly admitted in recent weeks that she was very beautiful.
Charlie seemed to have run out of steam already, and I let my tongue slip beneath his balls and into the warm furrow of his ass, my hand still cradling the moist and throbbing tip of his cock. For all I know, he was only bluffing.
*’Twas a damnably messy affair;*
*With barely a cuddle*
*She made such a puddle,*
*That I had to dispose of the chair.’*
I looked up at him and rolled my eyes.
‘Very impressive,’ I said, slickly stroking his cock.
‘Thanks,’ he said, allowing himself now to gasp the word out rather than really saying it at all.
For good measure, I took his cock back into my mouth again, and I felt the soft skin of his shaft glide over my tongue as I slid him deep into the back of my throat.
‘Fuck,’ he said, ‘can we just stop playing now?’
‘Mm-mm,’ I said, letting the muscles of my throat vibrate gently around his cock. I pulled my mouth off him, artfully wiped the saliva from my chin, and took a sip of my drink.
I was, again, too distracted by the sight of Charlie to leap straight into my own effort. He relaxed back on my bed, his eyes closed, his skin a delicate olive against the white of my sheets, a tattered condom wrapper somewhere near his shoulder which didn’t exactly enhance the image, but didn’t hurt it either. His cock had long been rock hard, and it glistened with my saliva and so did his balls, and if I wasn’t so pretentious and competitive I’d have climbed on top of him straight away, told him to stay right where he was and ground my clit into his pubic bone until I soaked my sheets again.
But I’m not really that kind of person. I’m a person with strange and inexplicable priorities, so I cleared my throat and began to take advantage of Charlie’s semi-supine posture.
*’In a handsome Belgravia flat,*
*While stroking Ghislaine Maxwell’s cat—’*
Caught by a horrified civic duty that I not be allowed to finish this one, Charlie made for me with a frightened, animal lust. With a firm but gentle hand between my tits, he guided me back onto a lowermost corner of the bed, placed a finger over my lips and, without any warning or preamble, pushed his cock into me so deeply that his hip bones dug into my thighs.
‘Fucking hell,’ I moaned, my eyes wide and my pulse quickening.
Satisfied with himself, Charlie eased up a little and looked down at me, raising his eyebrows in an invitation that I admit defeat.
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Okay, you win.’
‘Thank fuck for that,’ Charlie said. ‘You could have got both of us killed.’
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/if61o3/there_once_was_a_slutty_girl_from_londonfm
This is amazing and I love it.