Monday, 22 September 2014

A summer of sex: No good story starts with a salad.

I lived and worked in the same place over summer, I mean the exact same place. Bed to work was a two minute walk. Lots of other people lived there too. Let's keep it vague. I'm sure my employer wouldn't appreciate me writing about sex at work, nor would my future career benefit if this went viral.

Vague background aside, this bubble lifestyle meant that we spent a lot of time with our co-workers. And a lot of time with each other plus limited access to the outside world only meant one thing: sex.

*     *     *

No good story starts with a salad. A party was happening, some dude's leaving party, I can't say I really noticed who. My eyes were elsewhere.

B. was fun. He was a massive hippy in his multi-coloured shorts and flip flops. This wasn't the real world and this was summer. Everyone loves a hippy in the summer.

Drinks lead to chats and eventually the classic line, "Shall we get outa here darlin'" gets brought out (and brought back up for the rest of summer) and so we do just that.

*     *     *

We head back to his room. Kisses are fueled with fire and clothes begin to be strewn across the floor. Raw passion.

We fuck. There's no other word for it. When you need a safe word on the first night, you know you're in for a good time.

He's demanding but the confidence is hot. My inner-feminist battles sometimes with being told what to do, but my inner nympho usually agrees with the request. 

A simple "On your feet" can be so hot, because I know that means "I'm gonna bend you over the sink and fuck you so we can watch it in the mirror." Whereas "On your knees", means "I'm going to cum in your mouth". The cumslut in me is easily pleased.

We fuck. We fuck hard. We fuck fast. We fuck.

It was the kind of night where you ache the morning after.
It was the start of a good summer. 

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