the life and musings of a kinky slut

We’re Not Done

“You should come over.” – Gent
“Ok, when?” – me

Recently the Gent and I fucked, so I guess the game is over.

If I were to assign the title of victor to someone, I would award it to my pussy, seeing as during the night in question it was fingered, fisted, and fucked.

He invited me over on a whim. For the purpose of my last statement, whim is defined as not giving me notice and after realizing he would have had to cancel our previously scheduled get-together the next day. He asked me to “bring my toys and an open mind.” Naturally, being it’s my mind, thoughts of actions that I imagine will never happen played out as I drove over.

When I arrived, he looked a bit shocked at my toy bags, a piece of carry-on luggage on wheels and a matching shoulder bag. I explained to him this was quite normal, and that in fact my bag is smaller than others. This did not dissuade him, as he looked at my bags oddly for a moment or two and snickered.

We sat and chatted, recounting our lives in the week and a half since we last saw each other. He had an adventure with some of his friends. I had good work and a few extra-curriculars to share. It was nice chatting with him.

The conversation pivoted to Valentine’s Day, and how no one would guess that he is a romantic. He recounted a few of his gestures past, which were indeed quite over-the-top, sometimes playful, but always thoughtful.

Currently, though, he had no one is his life to focus on for the holiday. I suggested he use the energy for a family member or a friend. He agreed family was a possibility, but hesitated on friends. I started to explain my logic when he stopped me, saying he had already thought about it and came to the conclusion that he would do something nice for me. Apparently I made one of my faces while processing his statement.

Reaching into his couch cushions, he pulled out a box of chocolates. I accepted, thanking him for the gesture. I mentioned the last time I received chocolates for Valentine’s Day was many years ago from my father. I smiled, and set the box aside with my things so that I would not forget them.

His surprise satisfied, he turned to my toy bags. Systematically, he pulled out my things. He looked, asked questions, but also wished for me to see his reactions. My toys did not include my bootblacking kit or my cigars.  They did, however, include my red teddy. He asked me if I was going to wear it that night. I said if he wanted me to. “Wrong answer.”

He set my toys out in a rather OCD way, very neat and organized on a towel on the floor. He only pulled out about half a dozen coils of rope. He asked what my gloves were for.

“Fisting.” – me
“Am I going to fist you tonight?” – Gent
“Why possibly?”
“If you choose to, you will.”

Everything set out, he grabbed a coil of rope and pulled his chair over, placing himself in front on me as I sat on the couch. The Gent does not understand my love of rope, does not understand what it does for me. Still, he asked me to teach him some basic rope work.

I switched into teaching mode. I took the coil from his hands, placed it back on the floor, grabbed a shorter length, and set out to make him learn. I started with the one column tie, showing him a rope cuff. As I worked, he fingered me. Possibly to distract me. Possibly to see how well I knew my craft. Possibly just because he wanted to. Except for a slight lilt in my voice one or twice, I taught as I normally would. He learned. I moved onto a two column tie. He learned.

On a whim, I chain stitched the rope while waiting for him to return to the room. He liked the look of it and asked to learn that as well. I showed him quite a few times before handing the rope back to him. He wasn’t getting it. I sat on the floor in between his legs and showed him from my vantage point. He loomed over me.

As he practiced, I started to distract him. Since I knew he liked biting, I nibbled at his forearm, which is quite muscular, but I stopped myself.

“Are you worried about leaving a mark?”

I bit down hard, sinking my teeth as much as I could into his flesh. I heard his quick inhale. I bit and sucked at his muscles as he continued to practice. He told me to switch arms. At some point, he stopped practicing and reached down to again finger me.

I bit. His fingers danced on my clit. I sucked. He moaned as I moaned. With my teeth still tight on his muscles, I asked permission to cum. He gave it, and then told me to not stop. I bit and I cried as my muscles contracted; wave after wave of sensation ran through me. As tears slowly slid down my face, as I moaned and bit, he hugged me close, and I pulled his arms around me.

By the end, we both were sweaty and breathing heavy. I was endorphin high again, but that’s sort of become the norm for us. Of all my time that night, even with the fisting and the fucking, that moment with his arms around me and tears gliding down my face was my favorite.

I reassured him my tears were a good sign. There are two ways to make me cry while scening: beat me really hard or make me orgasm intensely.  That moment was rather intense.

The Gent had never fisted before. This was nothing new to me. I gladly taught him how I liked it, and suggested ways to adapt to other pussies. He rather enjoyed the activity, the many different ways he could control me with his entire hand inside me. What can I say other than I have the nickname for a reason.

After the fisting, we both lulled into a relaxed high mood. My legs rested against his chair. He rested his hands on my legs. After a time, he began gliding his hands up and down my calves and thighs. He then started scratching my flesh. Eventually his hands again found their way to my clit.

Soon enough, I again asked permission to cum. He made me wait, torturing me a little, before reprieving my need early. And even as he took his hands away, my abdomen heeded his earlier command. I felt almost trapped on his couch, orgasms tumbling, writhing there for him.

I told him he had to tell me to stop. He said he didn’t want me to.

I heard him take off his clothing. I opened my eyes to see him over me, wearing just his white undershirt. His cock was soon in my mouth. As I happily began my work, my abdomen finally quieted.

He sat. I knelt before him, playing with his cock using my tongue and my face. I rubbed my breasts against him. I fooled around. I teased him horribly. It was all quite fun. At one point I tied his wrists back so he couldn’t influence my sucking of his cock. I rather liked that part, too.

Once again I tried to deep throat and gagged horribly; baby steps. Once again he didn’t cum.

He wanted to fuck me. He asked me how this would work. I explained I would safe word if I didn’t want him. He asked what word I would use. I had previously explained the standard stop light approach. He said that was too boring. I then suggest far-fig-new-gen. He was pleased with that option.

So, the two of us, naked (except for his condom), ended up wrestling on his floor. The entire time we laughed. He is much stronger than me, but I have gotten a bit bendy-er since my yoga DVD, and I realized my hips need only be a little off to hinder him.

As we’re laughing and sweating and possibly disturbing his neighbors, he pivoted so that I was on top of him. I pulled my hips up so he couldn’t thrust into me. With my chest leaning over him, he took the opportunity to suck on my nipples, which I rather liked.

Then he said the wrestling no longer mattered because he’d gone soft. I called bullshit. He told me to just look. I, being an idiot, did. In my moment of lost focus, he finally entered me, after fifteen to twenty minutes of our horsing around. It was definitely not how I had fantasized our first fuck; meh.

With him inside me, I gasped and sunk into the warm feeling of his cock. In that moment, I didn’t give a shit about the game. I was only mildly disappointed I didn’t wait longer. Mildly because I’m competitive. Mildly because he is an excellent fuck. Mildly because when cock is inside of me certain things are no longer worth my effort or energy to worry about.

I came quite a few times. He eventually did as well. Even thinking about it now, a small grin forms on my face. Yeah, he’s a lot of fun.

When we finished, it was required that we go get food. I accidentally hadn’t eaten for about nine hours. He wanted Thai. I politely asked for another style of cuisine. He asked me what I wanted. I said Italian, so we ended up at Olive Garden.

We sat and ate and chatted. My stomach was not happy with me, so I consumed my meal quite slowly.

“Did you plan tonight?” – me
“Yeah.” – Gent
“Oh, okay.”
“What does that mean?”
“Excuse me?”
“What did you mean by ‘okay’?”
“Hmm… That it is kind of disappointing to be so predictable.”

The thing that had bothered me most about the idea of fucking the Gent was my belief that if we did screw either or both of us would be done with the other. I worried I would no longer be interested in being around him and/or he would also have no more interest in me. And funny enough, that didn’t happen.

As we spoke, he mentioned how he likes to help his friends improve themselves. Apparently I am his latest pet project.

“You are a long term project.” – Gent
“Yup, I am a work in progress.” – me

Over dessert, which settled better in my stomach than the rest of my meal, which later would sit in a box in my fridge, he started calling me out on my bullshit. My belief that I blend into the background. My insecurity issues. My tendency to put others’ feeling before my own.

As he sat there, and I was forced to talk about the thoughts I locked away in my head, I realized we were not done with each other. I still liked being around him, and wanted to hang out with him in the future. And darn it, he seemed like he wanted to chill with me as well. That was a nice surprise, having all my unplesant assumptions and fears blown away. It’s kinda like people like me or something.

As we stood in the foyer of the Olive Garden, takeout containers in hand, it had once again started to snow at the end of our encounter.

5pm to 11:15pm, six and a quarter hours once more spent together; we’re cool like that.

Categorised as: Gent | Sex

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