He hates that word. Hates it probably as much as I hate the word ‘nice’.
Tonight was my second date with “the Gent”.
“You’re dangerous; I’m loving it.” – my text to him on the way home; ‘Toxic’ was the first song on my radio.
“Stop Texting. Drive safe. Good night Mrs. Desires.”- his reply.
“I’m knee deep in training.” – his text to a friend that I read over his shoulder.
“Am I training you or are you training me?” – my magical question for the evening. (His text was referring to his work.)
“Who do you care about? Your mother? Your father? Your ex?” – me
“Yes.” – him, as he cleared off my car.
“Because I care about them more than they care about me.”
It was snowing. Not at the start of our date, but by the time I was driving home there was enough accumulation to make my trek take way longer than my bladder wanted to allow.
I really had to pee. “No one can top you like you can top yourself.” – DeepEnd, while I panted and cursed during a recent workout.
I didn’t stop driving til I got home, accept once at a shitty traffic light. The unrelenting pressure on my abdomen, coupled with my heightened state of arousal, made me cum. I cursed the light, and the Gent. I crept into my house as quietly as I could. I tried to not wake anyone. I hoped I succeeded.
My head, right now, is still swimmy from the alcohol and the orgasms. I came two times in the bar. As I rode his knee, I grabbed his coat, pulled his ear next to my lips, and told him, “You have to tell me to cum.” I’ve been trained well.
I came about a half dozen more times on my ride home. I cursed him and adored him for the cruelty.
We’re not going to fuck, but I want to fuck him. He pretends like he’s in control. He pretends like he decides. Really, it keeps bouncing back and forth, like an endless tennis match. My dominance is passive aggressive. He likes the games we’re playing.
“Are you a happy drunk? A horny drunk?” – him
“I’m happy, horny, handsy. All the positive drunk qualities.” – me
I felt him up. My uninhibited self wanted to feel his arms, the solid muscle of his biceps that I’d been staring at all night. Wanted to rub his back. Wanted to grip his ass.
He dressed down for the occasion. I dressed up; I had work in a nice corporate office beforehand. Clingy cleavage top. Dress pants. My ankle high Timberland boots. A jacket. All of it matte black. Under my dress pants, I didn’t wear underwear.
He paid for the first two rounds, the drinks we nursed while we played pool. I paid for the last two, the two rounds that each included a shot and a beer. I got us very…happy.
I love eye contact. Once as we talked, I grabbed his chin and turned his eyes towards me. He looked, for only a moment, and then turned away. I turned his face towards me again. And again. And again. I liked looking into his eyes, trying to guess what was going on in his brain.
I close my eyes when I play. I close my eyes when I cum. I let myself get lost in the sensations. The touch. The heat. My chest, my breathing. I soak it all in, fall into the chasm of my body, never wanting to come up for air.
He adverted his eyes as he bounced his knee against my clit, but I caught him, once, looking at me. I caught him seeing my ecstasy. I wondered what it would be like to see him cum. I wondered if he would later masturbate to my face as I rode his knee while we sat in the crowded bar, and I reveled in the delicious warmth that raced through my abdomen.
He was very poised, very matter-of-fact that I was writhing against his knee in such a public place. Very ho-hum about me wanting to cum for him. He was good at projecting his confidence.
“I want your cock in my mouth.”
I was not going to fuck him tonight. Mother Nature, and my need to torture him, had sought fit to prevent that. But the idea of him filling my mouth did excite me, but only to the point of teasing him. I would not have given him enough to make him cum, though apparently that had never happened to him before. Not yet, that is. Plans…
I like this boy, this new adventure, this creature that pushes me, enthralls me, that makes it hard and yet so easy.
We played five games of pool tonight. I won, 3-2. More accurately, he lost two, I lost one, he won one, and I won one.
And we did it, again. Our first encounter lasted 6.5 hours. This one, 5.25 hours, with no movie as filler.
I wonder what he’ll want to do next Friday.
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