I recently embarked on a morning-only situationship, for want of a better word. One particular man arrives at my flat somewhere between 6:15 and 7:15 a.m., enters through whichever door I have left open - I have two entrances, no pun intended - and then proceeds to have sex with me. We have met twice over the past month, and on both occasions he has been in and out (literally and figuratively) within an hour or less.
He likes to instruct me where he wants me to be when he enters my flat: on my bed, blindfolded and naked, for example, or in my kitchen, pleasuring myself while perched on my breakfast bar.
And then we take it from there.
I enjoy playing whatever role he asks of me because it requires no thinking on my part. I can switch off and let someone else take the driver’s seat, which is always a relief, no matter what time of day it happens to be. Mornings are my particular favourite because I’m at my horniest, and I don’t have to worry that he’ll want to spend the day hanging out with me, which I wouldn’t actually be averse to, given that, from the little I know of him, we seem to share an interest in design, being active and, of course, sex. Plus he’s attractive - a decade younger than me, with boyish good looks, tall, slim, on the preppy side with trendy tortoiseshell glasses. He looks like a guy who works in some arty field, which he does.
Our conversations, always by text, typically begin three or four days before we are due to meet, with flurries of messages between us: swapping pictures and sharing how we want to pleasure each other, orally or otherwise. By the appointed time and date, when he enters the room, I’m so mentally and physically prepared that it never takes me very long to climax. That’s a rarity at my age because, with others, it sometimes doesn’t happen at all or can take anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour, although I’ve never timed myself. I’m of the opinion that sex isn’t a race or even requires a finish line.
Between the texting, the graphic images and the elaborate erotic fantasy we have constructed, I’m a wound-up spring, ready to explode. My pussy is already wet and engorged, so when his tongue first touches my clit, I’m so prepared for it that I’m moaning and groaning, telling him how good it feels to finally feel him lapping up all my juices.
The man has an absolutely beautiful cock. I’ve seen a lot of dicks, and his is right up there if you like them big: thick, long and about as perfect as they come. A proper porn-star dick that I only have to look at to get incredibly turned on. Rather unfortunately, once inside me, he rarely lasts long. I suspect that the anticipation, first- or second-date nerves and the limited time we have to fuck all serve to short-circuit his ability to stay hard beyond a few thrusts. He’s in, he’s out and he’s come, all within five minutes. It’s not ideal, but his oral skills are also first-rate, and I suspect that, if I wasn’t merely a pit stop on his way to work, I might find out whether I was dealing with a form of erectile dysfunction or merely unfamiliarity.
