And then we fuck

Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor

Bear with me, I’m rusty as fuck. Something I could have said equally to him as to you. It’s been a long long time since I wrote up a fuckstory that was about anyone other than my ex. So bear with me, please, I know I will not get this right.

This is part 3 of 3, click to catch up with part 1 – Good Friends – and part 2 – dating communication – if you’d like this story in order.  

I arrive and we exchange greetings and grins: there’s something very satisfying about knowing this will happen. Being able to ask direct questions, rather than beating around the bush: shall we get some water? Are there condoms you prefer? Sofa or bed?

Before we even touch, he takes off his socks. Having carefully chosen my own outfit for ease-of-slipping-hands-inside-while-we-make-out, I thoroughly approve of his mutual efforts in forward planning.

The weird thing is, both at the time and now when I write it, I find myself suddenly shy. Why am I writing about socks? It’s as if my ability to do this job, which involves yanking my heart out through my cunt and smearing the resulting mess onto the internet, has suddenly slipped from my grasp. It’s like I’m starting work again, doing the same kind of stuff but at a brand new company, where I don’t understand how the coffee machine works or where team meetings are held or… how to describe a fuck without mentioning socks.

What do I say about this guy? How do I write him without boxing him up and labelling him like he’s a product, not a person?

Fuck knows, to be honest, but let’s give it a bloody good go.

And then we fuck

We make out. And what you need to know about our make-outs is that they are intense. He moans and makes the best of all noises: shuddering and groaning as I run my hands through his hair. I grab at him greedily, and he touches me with shivery-soft hands.

The pressure and speed and movement is all deliciously different. I’m holding on to him differently, gripping him differently, taking delight in exploring and touching and enjoying the way his new flesh feels in my palms. He’s sensitive both physically and mentally, which is my way of telling you that he full-body orgasms from gentle touch alone: kissing, frotting, rubbing, holding, these things all build to create deep and rumbly trembles throughout every single one of his limbs.

When he does this, I grip him tighter – all the better to feel the way he shakes, let it resonate through my thighs and hands and crotch.

I suck his cock. And what you need to know about this is that he’s the world’s most vocal recipient. Seriously, it’s incredible: moans, grunts, shudders, the works. He could run courses in how to have your dick sucked. He gives explicit instructions, at my request, because suck jobs are my favourite, and I really really want to do themwell.

Start soft like this, touch me there, yes that’s good.

And I lap up the instructions as eagerly as I’m lapping at his dick. This thing I was so worried about doing wrong? His noises tell me exactly how to do it fucking right.

At one point he grabs me by the back of my head, shuddering and twitching as I envelop his cock with my throat. Later he tells me it was the perfect combo of soft and hard sensations, meeting wetly in my mouth, so I make mental notes on how I did it – using tongue and throat and lips to build sensation. I’m desperate to hear more moany noises, and incredibly eager to please, so I lock this info away for the next time, and in the meantime I glow.

When he makes me come, it comes as a surprise. I’d given him the spiel beforehand – I probably won’t. Life’s stressful. I’m nervous and unsure and insecure and… He listened kindly, and knew not to expect miracles. But as we made out again and he touched me – softly, gently, cautiously, carefully, then building to firm and steady – something in the pit of my stomach dropped all of a sudden. A flash of something clicked into place in my brain. Blankness everywhere except the sensation of his fingers on my clit and his lips on mine and my body flashing a – ‘yeah, fuck yeah’ – it’s happening.

I come on his hand and grip the bedcovers tightly to ride out the waves. He can feel my cunt twitch spasms when I’m done, and he mentions it, and I grin.

And I know I know I know that the point of all this isn’t just fucking, but I’m building to tell you that we fuck, because fucking is kinda my jam. When he said to me, in the post-tremble glow of how hard I’d just come, that he really fancied a fuck now, my heart leapt.

Let’s pause. This is starting to sound like a tickbox list, isn’t it? I told you I’m really out of practice. In recent years I’d pick a tone, or a move, or sensation, and build a sexy blog post around that. But right now I’m kid-in-a-sweet-shop excited by the buffet of fucking on offer, and I want to tell you all of it all at once. I’m the girl running back to you after a snog at the school disco, eagerly spilling secrets about which of his hands grabbed my bum, and the length of the kiss and what he tasted like and how I wondered if I might now have a hickey. Missing the important parts in favour of listing the acts.

There’s joy in the list, though, because each part of it makes me – here’s that word again! – grin. We made out, I sucked him off, he made me come and we fucked. And the rusty gears of my fuckblogging memory clunk laboriously through words that might explain how we fucked, because the simple act of fucking seems too tricky to describe.

I can tell you that as he rolled on a condom, my pulse beat firmly in my cunt. That the second he slipped inside me, my eyes grew wide with glee. That the angle and the depth and intensity of those first delicious strokes made me gasp involuntarily, then bite my lip into uncharacteristic silence as I grabbed his arse with both hands and yanked him into me.

That the moment he reached up to grip the bed frame and slam into me with greater force, I couldn’t help but grin – again, of course.

When I used to write up fucks, I’d pick a tone – this guy made noises, that one wore leather gloves, this girl was gleeful and hungry. But I’m rusty, and out of practice, so I find myself reeling off lists to give you sex acts like it’s those that matter.

But it’s not the acts that matter, not right now. What matters is we both had fun, and afterwards we ate and drank and laughed. And when we parted company, my face still hurt from grinning.

So no tone for this. No meaning. No overarching message that you can carry with you on your journey to future shags. All you need to know about this guy is that he made me smile. We fucked, had fun, were happy.

And even as I type these inadequate words, I cannot help but break into a grin.

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