I wouldn’t have called it subspace at the time, but the way the order of things has slipped out of my brain suggests some kind of altered state. So, Steampunk Guy, if I’ve messed up the timeline, feel free to punish me.
“Whatever happened to this date being clothing optional?’ he asked and I hopped up and got naked. In the time it took me to cue up the new National album, (Pure moody summer makeout music, see above.) he was not just naked but ready to go, complete with condom and safety gloves. (We’d already done the when-were-you-tested conversation, after which we high-fived.)You wouldn’t think someone could look beautiful wearing green plastic gloves, but you’d be wrong.
Last year when Sweetie and I got our new couch, we optimistically chose a fold-down one. Steampunk Guy’s the first guy I’ve folded it down for. (Because my life is awesome, Mr. Shiny Eyes became the second one last night.) After I’d figured out how to work the mechanism and got the bed all situated, he had me lay down on my stomach. I felt all cozy and happy, like I was at the beach.
He went from spanking (He’d mentioned that his tools were in the car, but I didn’t think he’d need them, and I was right.) to probing—pulling me open, pressing me apart. I’m starting to get a little fetish for the feeling of gloved fingers in me. (See the previous post’s hand-rhapsodizing.)
He left my legs together and lay on top of me, entering not-all-the way but from such a lovely angle. I’d never been in that position before. I let out a moan/sigh and said “Aaaaaahhhh, nowonderyouhavelikeninegirlfriends…oh, oh, oooohhhhh..” (and so on) He felt so perfect—I’d been needing it so badly and now I was getting all filled up.
He turned me over and fucked me so hard that it hurt. I screamed and cried and took it for as long as I could, just kissing him and yowling and carrying on. (It’s possible that the neighbors might hate me.) This is being thoroughly fucked, stripped all the way down to my primal animal whatever. I wailed, I balled up my fists. It felt like I was lighting up and tearing apart, like I was everything and nothing but light and warmth and pain, and he doesn’t stop when he comes, just keeps pushing in and in until I’m breathless and “Oh, wait, okay, I have to stop, sorry…”
As we moved from fucking to snuggling, I was somewhere between ecstasy and trauma, panting and dizzy. “I’ve never felt anything quite like that before.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Eyeroll then, eyeroll now.
My scalp was warm from my hair being pulled so much. My cheeks were blushy with exertion and beard burn. My ass was lightly bruised and my pussy was throbbingly, gushingly wet, trying to figure out what hurricane just hit it. He held me and his fuzzy chest hair felt all nice and soft against my chest.
We got to know each other a little. It turns out he’s military, just got back not long ago. Why do I keep feeling drawn to guys who fought in wars I’ve protested? (Well, I have protested every war since I was in ninth grade.) It could be some urge to connect and humanize the Other. Or it could just be that I like guys who are really strong and tend to be on time. I don’t know, and I never know what to say when someone tells me he’s been in a war, other than “I’m glad you didn’t die.” which is actually what I said.
We talked some more about our respective kinks. He says he’s good with ropes, so I hope I might get to test out his knotsmanship sometime, should we make it to the magical land of the second date.
He looked so happy, and I was too. It was snuggling with a pal. A very smiley pal who keeps laughing to himself for whatever reason.
Next Time: Waves of warmth, sex-tears, then pie.