I have fucked only one dick for the past six months.
This circumstance occurred without forethought or premeditation. The sex was intentional; the lone participant was not. But being in medical school affords itself a plethora of barriers to my would-be gratifications.
Timing is always an issue, studying 6-14hrs per day every day, the pressure and guilt of surviving school suffusing every waking moment while on campus.
My social circle has, up until the end of May, been my fellow classmates and a few upperclassmen. This limited pool includes either people already coupled up or folks who have shown little to no interest in me. Frustration, thy name is Poetic.
My trips home have been brief and/or busy. Those normally on my roster have been unavailable.
The last time I fucked another dick was New Year’s Day. If it wasn’t for masturbation, I’d go insane. Even with fapping, I’m barely holding up.
Fucking Gent has been my slutty sexual reset. Every time, I arrive at his place frustrated and wanting. I leave freshly violated in every way I love.
In many ways, fucking him has been a natural part of my medical school life. His place is one hour closer to my school. Sunday mornings with Gent are an orgasmic send off before my long trek back to my studies. We chat, he buys me breakfast, and we screw vigorously before I hit the road. My two most recent trips back home featured just such interactions.
It’s a little funny how often I forget how good we are together in bed, especially right before he enters me and I start moaning for the next thirty minutes to two hours.
Gent likes toying with me mentally, posing challenging questions I feel I must rise to the occasion to answer. Or he’ll just say something that he may not realize is ridiculously hot to me, and I have to decide if I want to pursue this intellectual line of flirtation.
Case and point, a recent text conversation:
G: What are you up to?
Me: At a barbecue with my former coworkers. Currently sitting on a blanket chatting with friends at Gunpowder State Park. How is your stomach feeling?
G: Interesting park name. Stomach will be fine eventually. Enjoy the barbecue. I’ll talk to you later tonight.
G: Personal question. Are you in your period right now?
Me: No, finished up. You literally get to see me right before and right after my cycle.
G: That’s too bad.
Have I had the “crime scene sex” conversation with this man? Did he remember my frustration at the less than elegant way my ex described an activity we would never partake in?
Did Gent know asking this question would set off a chain reaction in my brain, my horny self contemplating different scenarios of how to get back into town to possibly make this happen with him?
Probably not, but fucking with this man has both carnal pleasures and intellectual teases that make me bite my lip randomly throughout most days.
When I got to his place, opened the unlocked door, and flopped down on his bed, it took me less than ten minutes to bring up his text question.
“I was wondering how long you’d last before you asked about that.”
We laid on his bed, his eyes on his phone, one of my arms draped over one of his arms, my face and free arm clutching a stray pillow.
He then proceeded to stand, pull off my underwear, and climb on top of me. No question, no warning, but simply removed the slightest of barriers for his dick to slide inside me. That right there, remembering that act, is the latest in a long line of moments that when thinking about them make me instantly wet.
I started moaning immediately.
“Shh,” he whispered.
I can’t help but get loud when we have sex. Usually this is just a feature of our sessions. This time, though, was different.
It is incredibly difficult for me to not scream while we fuck. I am quite vocal: moaning, sobbing, mumbled words, multiple expletives. Never quiet. But the way he gave that simple order. So much of our last fuck was my just trying not to disobey his wish.
My face in a pillow. Biting on and sucking my bicep. Whimpering, deliciously pathetic, wanting so desperately to scream.
Gent has made a point lately of making sure I ride him each time we fuck. With my current research position including a three-quarters of a mile walk from my parking space to my cubicle, my thighs are in their best shape yet to enjoy this part of our sex. I grip his headboard and rock my hips, hoping the banging isn’t too loud. Occasionally, he’ll put my hands on his chest to get me to sit back. I am hyper aware of my nails, making sure to grip with the pads of my fingers. He is not a fan of marks unless he is making them on me.
Another position he enjoys is me prone, thighs together, his chest against my back, his head against my head, his hands gripping my shoulders for leverage as he slams into me. In particularly carnal moments, he sinks his teeth into my shoulders. I always want him to bite me more, harder. I look forward to rubbing those remembrances from him later.
The question of how long this is going to last lingers in our interactions, like a rich scent you know will eventually dissipate, but you don’t want it to ever leave.
Blue dress still on, only my panties gone, Gent fucking me from behind, lying on my side trying not to moan, he spoke as he rocked my body back and forth, my cunt gliding on his cock.
G: I liked your latest posts. I jacked off after reading them. Let me ask you a blunt question: Is If about me?
(I am my most honest during sex.)
G: You know you are a dear friend, and I greatly enjoy this time with you, especially being inside you.
(Note: We are still fucking as we’re chatting.)
G: But, one day, I look forward to you refusing me.
Me: It will come. (No, I didn’t realize the irony of my words at the time.)
Me: As soon as I’m in a relationship, I know this will end.
The week before, while we waited for our respective meals, Gent had me download some dating apps: Bumble, Coffee Meets Bagel, Hinge, and Tinder. He didn’t accept my medical school excuses. Gent is a good friend.
The day will come when Gent and I stop having sex. Until then, I’m enjoying my slutty sexual outlet and sexy Sunday morning muse.