We walked out of the timeless space of the strip club, into the busy streets. Fifteen blocks later, we arrived at the hotel. “Ooh, fancy!” you said.
“Only the best for you,” I joked. Our first tryst had been at a seedy hourly place.
I checked us in and got two keys. I handed you one, and sent you to the room. “Text me after your first orgasm,” I said.
Minutes later, while I chewed on a pretzel on the street, watching theater-goers pass me by, that text arrived.
“Text me after your second orgasm,” I replied. I stood on the street, hard, my cock straining against my jeans as I imagined you and your magic wand.
The next text arrived soon. “I’ll be there in a moment,” I texted. “keep going.”
When I stood outside the door, I sent one last text. “On your knees, please.”
I waited just a few moments before entering, to find you at the foot of the bed, on your knees. I removed my jeans and slipped between you and the bed, and I fed you my cock, slowly.
You hungrily devoured me, pulling me by my ass into your mouth.
I was impatient. I stood you up, pushed you over the bed, slipped a condom on, and slid my cock into your cunt from behind. You were… ready.
I fucked you, pressing your face into the bed, slapping my balls against your ass, feeling the tip of my cock reaching deep inside of you.
I flipped you over, and dove down between your legs. I love eating pussy. I love eating your pussy. Could you come this way? I doubt it. I know that your orgasms are truly hard-won.
And then, once more, you took my cock in your mouth.
I fucked your face, gently, and I came, quietly, shooting my cum deep into the back of your mouth, your throat.
You didn’t rush to lift your face off of me, and I was grateful.
I kissed you, tasting my cum in your mouth. And as I stood to go to the bathroom, you said, “I’m going to cum again,” as you reached for your magic wand.
It didn’t take long before you had a writhing third (fourth?) orgasm, and I contentedly stroked my cock as I watched you. We kissed once more, got dressed, and headed home.
We shared much of our trips to our different neighborhoods together, taking candidly, about sex, tweeting, blogging, life. Could the people on the train see how dirty we had just been?
I like to think so.
I like (fucking) you.
If you want to read her version, it’s here.