Grant is curious about the things that I write here.
The other evening, he and I had spent the day together in a smallish suburb of our fair city. We visited museums with surprisingly extensive collections for the middle of nowhere, shops that indulge our mutual interest in out-of-print books, and found a surprisingly great pub with a delicious, exclusive brew. We sat at the bar and ate mussels and drank lager and talked about the kinds of sex I want to have and the kinds of sex that I had previously enjoyed. He shared similar information.
“So what kind of names do you like to be called?” Grant’s voice is low; he is a number of things but an extrovert isn’t one of them.
“Oh, you know, like ‘whore’ and ‘slut,’ that kind of thing. I chose not to think too much about why I like it, because I’m pretty sure that would just make me less happy.”
“You’re probably right. What else do you like?”
“Not on my face, not on my neck, but handprints on my ass, that sort of thing.”
“You like power dynamics.”
“Oh yes. I like it when you’re in charge.”
“You like being dominated.”
“Uh-huh.” I squirm in my chair. I’m pretty sure the barmaids are not actually paying attention to us. Grant changes the subject.
In the car on the way home, we revisit our bar conversation. We are discussing where I like to be slapped, how I like being tied up, and the fact that the backs of my knees are surprisingly sensitive when I look over and see that Grant’s cock is straining against the fly of his jeans, and there is a tiny, tiny wet spot bleeding through at the tip.
“Did you ever take naked photos of yourself?” he asks, my hand snaking across his lap to investigate these new developments.
“Yes, but a lot of them have my ex in them.”
“Can I see them?”
“Some. If you want, we can swing by my place for pictures.” We are planning to stay at his place for the night, as his roommate is out of town for the month.
“Ok.” My hand explores his hardening cock.
When we stop by my house, Grant stays in the car while I run in to grab a box of restraints and an envelope full of old polaroids of me and Simon, or photos of me taken by Simon, that were the spoils of that breakup. Looking at them feels awkward at best to me, and I flip through the stack of pictures to find the ones that reveal as little of Simon as possible and that flatter my then-22-year-old body, and then stuff the rest of them back in an envelope that lives somewhere out of sight and out of mind. I run back to Grant’s car with my spoils, and offer to show him one photo. He has to pick from a fanned-out selection of blank boxes on the backs of the pictures.
He selects one where I am adjusting a strap-on. He laughs before starting the car back up and driving us home. His erection has not faded in the slightest in the face of these photos.
When we get into his house, we drop our things on the floor. Grant wraps his arms around my waist and kisses me, his hands running up and down my back from ass to shoulder. They find the hem of my shirt, pull it off over my head, and fling it across the kitchen table.
“What do you want to do?” he inquires. He is playing with my belt buckle, and eventually loosening it. His breath in my ear is hot, and it resonates through my brain and down my spine. I pull out of his embrace and kneel. I pull his jeans to the floor with me and bring his cock into my mouth, where it hits the back of my throat and I struggle not to gag. He pulls my hair into his fists and guides my head along his shaft.
“Get up,” he says. “Bend over.”
I comply: I stand up and bend at the waist, forearms on the table to steady myself. Grant grabs my hipbones, hikes them up, and enters me from behind. I am so wet that he slides into me with ease, and he fucks me against the table until I come, and clear fluid leaks from my body down my leg to a puddle on the floor. He decides we need to go to the bedroom.
He pushes me onto the bed and lands on top of me, covering me with his body. He grabs my hair with both hands and uses it to pull my face to his and kiss me. My hips are pressing insistently into his, and he enters me again. He lets go of my head with one hand and uses it to push a leg over his shoulder, bending it back so my knee touches my breast.
Grant’s penis has a curve to it that is difficult to describe. When we are not actively fucking I like to tease him that he is built for sex, because it is so easy to have mind-ending orgasms with him inside of me, easier and far more pleasurable than it has ever been with anyone else. Tonight is no exception, and I tighten around him and muffle my cries into his chest.
We have been having sex for about an hour and a half. We decide we need a break. We take a shower and return to his bedroom. We contemplate changing the sheets and decide against it.
“Margot, what is your favorite thing you’ve ever written in your blog?”
“My favorite thing or a thing I think you might like?”
He starts to read. He starts to get hard. I stroke his cock. He sighs and raises his hips to my touch.
“Suck my cock, Margot.”
I look up and see the pale monitor light reflected in his glasses as he scrolls through my writing. One hand operates the touchpad on his computer, the other alternately pulls my hair and plays with my breasts while I lick and stroke his dick. There is an exceptional amount of fluid dripping from the tip into my mouth.
“How much of this is real?”
“I’m busy, I’ll tell you later,” I reply, the sound muffled by his erection on my tongue.
His hips are thrusting into my face, and his hand holding my head steady. He is groaning and sighing as his other hand joins its mate in controlling his angle of penetration.
“I need to fuck you,” he pants. “I don’t care if it’s your face or your cunt or any other part of you, but I need to fuck you.”
I lift my face off of him and roll onto my back.
“Fuck my tits, then.” I reply.
He straddles my ribcage. My saliva is all over his cock as I press my breasts around it. He thrusts across my sternum and I lick the tip of his glans ever time it approaches my mouth.
He is flushed. He groans and sighs. He alerts me that he is very, very close to orgasm.
I squeeze my breasts more tightly together; I can get the tip of his penis into my mouth. His glans is swollen and its now-rigid corona catches my flesh as he thrusts in and out of the valley between my tits.
Grant exhales deeply. He comes in ropes across my chest, this fluid streaking across my neck and face and landing in my hair and on the headboard. His orgasm is prolonged, and as a result there is a truly astonishing amount of liquid on my skin and in the sheets.
Grant dismounts from my torso. His breathing is heavy. Before he can lean in to kiss me, I have found a tissue and have cleaned my lips and eye. He kisses me and chuckles a little bit; wiping more of his come off of my face.
“I think I need another shower,” I tell him.
“Ok.” He blushes. “I’m sorry I kind of messed you up.” Grant has returned to his normal self: kind, considerate, and a touch shy.
I grab a slightly damp towel and head off to the bathroom. When I return, Grant has changed the sheets and is waiting for me in bed. My old photos are scattered across the room. I crawl under the covers with him and straddle his lap. He kisses my nose and forehead while stroking my back.
We make plans for the rest of the weekend that include a bike trip in a nearby national park before I fall asleep, my chest to his back with an arm over his waist, with his arms covering mine. When I wake in the morning, we have rotated and traded places. We go to brunch and share our food. We are obligated to spend this day apart.
We will only be apart for 24 hours, but I always am excited for him to come back home to me.