While lounging on his couch…
“You are pretty because… Too slow.” – Gent
“I didn’t realize it was a question.” – me
“Yeah, I like to throw in questions randomly. Why are you pretty?”
“I am pretty because it is a fact.”
While fucking on his bed…
“I really appreciate you allowing me inside of you.”- Gent
“God, I love fucking you.” – me
While fucking on his floor…
“I have to admit it, I wanted to see if I could wear you out.” – me
“This is not me worn out.” – Gent
“I know. Fuck, I could fuck you all night.”
While fucking on his couch…
“If you allow someone inside of you, they should appreciate you. If they don’t appreciate their dick inside of you, you shouldn’t fuck them…Fuck, you are so beautiful.” – Gent
It is an odd feeling to realize, mid stroke, that you are probably having the best sex of your life.
I was horny. Incredibly horny.
I’d finished my WinterFire voice recordings, and found myself with little else to do for my day. It was early afternoon, so I ate, seeing as I’d consumed only a cup of juice thus far.
Unlike the past few days, I allowed myself to gorge (well, in comparison to the other meals I’d had lately). I ate two cups of cereal with two cups of Silk, some leftover Chinese food, and a few chips. I watched Drawn Together and lazed on the couch.
Randomly, I found myself getting sleepy. I allowed my eyes to close, and thoughts of fucking immediately drifted into my head. Fucking this person and that person on this piece of furniture in that room. Fucking and fucking and fucking. I was crashing.
With a shot, my eyes opened, and I realized I could actually solve my current situation. I have friends.
I texted the Gent.
What are you doing right now? – me
Finding clothes. What are YOU doing right now?- Gent
Wanting to come over to your place and fuck you for a few hours. Interested?
I think I have some free time.
Good. I’ll shower and be over there probably about 5:30-6pm.
I actually arrived at 6:30pm; traffic. I brought my toy bags, just in case, but I pretty much knew this was going to be a solely sex-filled night.
As I got ready, my horniness would not subside. I listened to one of my mixes from WinterFire on my phone the entire drive over. I didn’t turn the music off til I dropped all my things on his floor.
He pulled me in for a hug. I reciprocated, but not as fully as I normally would. We drifted into the kitchen. He sipped on some water and noted my tapping foot.
I was antsy. No, more than that. I wanted to fuck, NOW. I was dropping, hard, and needed a fix. The Gent, being a good friend, obliged.
He got me to sit on the couch for about thirty seconds, and asked me if I wanted to talk first, since this was our normal way. I said yes, we could talk, or we could just start fucking. A cursory, “oh ok” left his lips.
I immediately went after his dick. I pulled off his sweat pants, started sucking, and he started moaning. He completely disrobed, naked on the couch, as I took pleasure in the feel of his cock in my mouth.
He leaned over and pulled up my dress, pleased to find I was not wearing any underwear. He smacked my ass a few times before settling into simply receiving his blowjob.
Soon, though, he was up off the couch. He picked up a condom from his end table and set out to fuck me. I was still clothed, and would be for a while, as we proceeded to fuck all over his apartment.
We fucked over his couch. On his couch. On his floor. Bent down on his floor. Bent over his kitchen counter. On his kitchen counter. (He was polite, laying down a towel and a pillow for my head.) Bent over his bed. And, finally, on his bed.
I’d been wearing a gray and black cotton stretch dress I bought from Delicious for WinterFire, and, of course, my boots. My boots didn’t come off until he brought me to his bedroom. I didn’t feel right fucking on his bed with my boots on. Instead he fucked me as I bent over his bed and unlaced the intricate pattern from around the pewter rosettes.
We fucked on his bed, scrambling about in the sheets. He sweated a lot and used the fabric to wipe himself off. I loved the smell of him, his scent permeating around me.
He made a comment about the blog I posted concerning our first fuck. Of course he had read it, even though he told me he’d stopped reading my blog because he wanted to get to know me without the words. Apparently the word “meh” was used. He didn’t like that at all.
As he fucked me on his bed, I reminded him of my favorite part of that night, him holding me close as he fingered me and I bit his arms. Gent then sought to fuck me in a similar fashion, my ass cradled against his hips, our bodies spooned together, his head against mine, his arms pulling me in close. It was deliciously intense and one of my favorite parts of the night.
Eventually we paused. We had fucked on the floor and couch and kitchen, stopped for a bit of water and a strawberry, fucked on his bed, and then finally stopped to chat. Our first round of fucking lasted about an hour and a half.
He redressed; I stayed naked cause, well, I like being naked. We started talking, our conversation centering on my recounting of my time since I’d seen him.
I talked to him about Gray’s Cigar Social. I mentioned the moment in the car, us holding hands for a few seconds. The Gent offered up his hand to me. I gladly accepted, often playing with it as I spoke.
I talked about setting up for WinterFire, about the different play spaces, about organizing music. We talked and talked.
We transitioned back to the living room and his couch. I slipped my dress back on, which he’d flung off sometime during one of our rounds on the couch, or maybe the floor. It was a lot of positions and all over the place, so I can’t be quite sure.
Any who…We ended up talking about me, but not the “what I did” me. Rather it became the “these are my emotional problems” me.
Once again, insecurity ran up to the front. I acknowledged it stemmed from issues with my father. I expressed my anger at him, but also my want to somehow form a deeper connection while he still has time on this earth.
The Gent suggested, instead of seeking out my healing through another, that I work to make me better with just me. (Yes, a therapist would be nice, too. That will happen when I have more money.)
The Gent asked me what was one small thing we could work on now. I suggested believing people like me for more than what I do for them. He thought this idea was, well, big and broad and no where near small.
He suggested we start with pretty. I looked at him quizzically. He noted pretty was a big one too, but it was certainly smaller than the idea I had come up with.
The Gent likes to deal in facts. The way he put it, “Line ten guys up in a room. Maybe three will want to fuck you, but all of them will think you’re pretty. Hot. Sexy. These are opinions. ‘You are pretty’ is a fact. And it’s not because of your eyes or your lips or your skin color or your hair. You are pretty. It’s just a fact.”
He sat in a chair while I laid out on his couch. I stuffed a pillow under my head and squirmed all about as he spoke. I gave him grins and sideways glances. I wondered if he found my tableaux attractive, cute, pretty. I tried to believe him. (And this is when he’ll say, “There is no trying, only doing.”)
He made me say it. He repeated it over and over again. He noted not only was I pretty, in my dress or in my dress blacks, but I also had an engaging personality that drew people in. The combination of the two, amazing.
As he spoke, and I loved hearing the sound of his voice… As he spoke, I tried my damnedest to believe him. I repeated as he wished. I held the mantra in my mind, and frankly I’m still saying it to myself.
He wants me to get to a point where I exude my positive opinion of myself at all times. He wants me to be able to walk into a room and have everyone notice my entrance. He wants more for me than I’ve ever thought for or of myself.
Around 9:30pm, he threw his coat on and suggested I put my boots on. He wasn’t kicking me out, but he was worried that my car would get towed. I got one boot on, but then wondered where my other sock was. He found it in his room and gave me the fabric.
He noted my bra had more hooks than he normally dealt with and apologized for fumbling while opening it earlier. I wasn’t sure how many hooks were actually attached, so I bent over, lifted up my dress, and asked him to check. As I bent over, I presented my ass as I almost always do. He brushed his hand against it, lightly gripping my hips. I popped my hips back, grinding onto his crotch.
“Oh God, don’t make me fuck you again.”
I stood up, turned around, and began nuzzling his crotch with my knee. I bit at him through his clothes. I got to my knees, pulled out his dick, and started sucking again. He relented. We fucked more on his couch.
My clothes stayed on. He used the cotton stretch as a hand hold while fucking me harder still. I came and came once again. That was when he mentioned guys appreciating the use of my cunt. That was when he called me beautiful.
We fucked on the floor. He hooked his legs over mine and I rode him hard, finding just the right spot as he had informed me before, and I came, hard, multiple times.
I thought of one way we had not fucked, up against a wall. We tried but we were too close in height, even after I quickly removed my one boot. He decided he would just hold me up. He lifted me by my thighs and I slipped him in. This only lasted for a minute or two. We went back to the couch.
About half an hour later, we finally stopped, again. He was worried about my car.
The evening was beautiful. I didn’t actually need to wear my coat, but it made me less self conscience about onlookers seeing how hot I was in a dress.
He helped me carry my things to my car. I hugged him right this time, and he mentioned talking to me soon.
As I drove away, I basked in the sore feeling in my abdomen, happy that I had indeed both asked for what I wanted and received it.
On a constant loop, running through my head, was the sound of his voice, and his words. “You are pretty; it is a fact.”
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