When I dressed for my date with the cute high school English teacher I’d been exchanging messages on Okcupid over break, I considered, briefly, changing out of my heart printed white cotton panties and cutesey bra and into a sexier set of lingerie. We had, after all, both established our hedonistic tendencies in our conversation, and I am generally a big believer in fucking on the first date.
But I decided against it, because, well, I had just moved in (aka dropped off my bundles of possessions) in my new apartment hours earlier in the day, and I hadn’t unpacked a single thing, not even basic bedding. Besides, I didn’t want to subject my funny old man roommate (who is at once the epitome of the sweet old grandpa and a slightly insane ex-druggie/artist/womanizer whatever in his youth) to debauchery before I even decided on which room to rent.
And, we were going to do dinner and a movie. The movie was a midnight showing of Showgirls. I imagined that he didn’t hold expectations of fucking after that late and intricate of a date. And, he noted a lack of experience in BDSM when we talked about it, so I assumed that meant he was experienced in plenty of fun vanilla but didn’t not share the same dirty, kinky mindset as me. Rendering my underwhelming underwear choice a fully viable and convenient option.
Hours after a faintly unfulfilling meal and a grueling reminder of the beauty of lines like “everybody’s got AIDS and shit” and “you look better than a ten inch dick” from overly enpowered strippers of Showgirls, wandering around the village searching for a coffee shop that I finally learnt had closed down, being the only two patrons of a near closing crepery and discussing our respective explicit debaucheries, he sat on the couch in my not-even-decided-to-be-my room. And waited with his eyes closed.
He had ordered me to strip, change into something better (I decided on a delicate lacey pink and black bra, ruffled translucent panties with a bow, thigh high stockings), then straddle him, and kiss him. I took my time in adjusting the thin fabric of the bra to just cover my nipple and the lines of my stockings straight on my thighs, then followed his instruction, pressing my hips against his jeans and smiling at the thrill of his hard cock already pushing against my pussy. Eyes still closed, he touched the texture of each piece of lingerie and slid his hands down the silky sides of my stockings. He approved.
I smiled at his blind appreciation and kissed him, slightly grinding my hips into his as the anticipation of what was to come tingled and spread across my skin—which turned into electricity when he jerked my hair and pinched my nipples—hard. He switched away his grip for his lips sucking and biting, flickering his tongue at the sensitive pink. When I, in turn, reached to pull off his shirt, he shoved my hands away. “Not until I’m ready to strip.”
Oh, the pain of denial. Moments later I pleaded to suck his cock, its tantalizing tease beneath his jeans nearly unbearable. “Not yet,” he said. But this time it didn’t take too much longer of convincing. He pushed my head lower and told me to pull the tight pants down. I was delighted at the sight of his cock, nearly smooth, the perfect thickness to grip, and even more so to suck and gag on. He gripped my hair and forced me to meet his eye as his cock fucked my throat. He liked the sight of my tears.
He also liked it when he posed me in front of him, legs spread, bent over to finger my clit and with the mirror placed behind us, a visual feast. Or when he held my legs at his side and told me to lean back and spread wide, leaning so far back that my head hung upside down and stared straight into the exposed and stretched version of my breasts and chest in the mirror.
And even more, when, finally, after much pleading on my part, he allowed me to lower myself onto his cock. For a moment, pain flared, and then the exquisite satisfaction when he entered me fully. And proceeded to fuck me, halfway on the edge of the couch, bent over with my palms straining against the wood floor, punctuated by a slap of the ass or thigh or the side of my breasts (a perfectly round bluish purple bruise adorns it, even now). Anytime I chanced a glance back I saw our vicious motions. It was a hard sight to give up—but I wanted him on top of me, wanted to feel his weight against me.
We climbed up to the bed—a loft bed. He liked the novelty value, but his six foot one frame might have had slight more difficulty not banging against the ceiling overhead. But it was a switch well made. He positioned me in every which way and slammed his cock deep inside my cunt, rapid nonstop heavy breathing interpersed with the sort of deep, intense motion that made me breathless.
He seemed disappointed that he came inside of me rather than on my face, like he wanted to. But I didn’t mind. By then I could hardly move without my body trembling.
Go figure. My first date on my second date back landed me another boy just as enthusiastic about dirty kinky fucking. In the morning, or late afternoon, after I climbed back to bed half dressed and ready to start the day, he lowered my hand on his chest down and around his erection. Minutes later we were fucking again, my face pressed into the pillows as I tried to stifle my moans and screams for fear of the up and awake gramps noticing. Like he said—he had found a brilliant way to bastardize missionary. Or not allowing me to fuck him and instead pounding his hips up as I rode on top of him.
Or finally spurting the come on my face and my stuck out tongue, as he originally planned.
Before he left he told me all the spots in the apartment he wanted to christen, besides my couch and bed. The kitchen counter, the shower, the wall—he picked me up and pushed me against the wall. I wrapped my legs around him and agreed. Yes, that would be fun.
