I went to strut my stuff on the dance floor and, as ever, checked out the talent: what guys were there, and were any of them worthy of a closer look? You’re allowed to look, even if you’re spoken for. My well-trained where’s-the-nearest-sweetie gaze scanned the crowd. And fell upon a perfectly delightful little specimen. My Number Eleven. Number Eleven was dancing with wild abandon on one of the marble pedestals and seemed insanely laid-back, cool and sexy. Tall, damn handsome (at least at this distance), with dark hair. Wearing sunglasses (inside the club where the lights were dimmed), a great big happy grin on his face. He got people going from up there, kept entertainment levels high, and the crowd cheered him on. He really enjoyed the interaction and somehow it wasn’t embarrassing. Not like those idiots with their yeah-I’m-so-cool image who climb up on some counter top and think they’re as sexy as Mickey Rourke in 91/2 Weeks. You can hardly bear to look at them the cringe factor is so high! They aren’t the faintest bit cool; what they are is completely insecure and only capable of being up there after the consumption of outrageous quantities of Vodka Red Bull. All they do is look ridiculous. Incidentally, there are more than enough female versions of this: silly girlies in cheap Miss Sixty outfits climbing on tables, gyrating their too-fat butts with strained lasciviousness, thinking they’re Britney Spears in her heyday. The young guy up there was nothing like that. He didn’t have to try to be cool; he was cool. Up there he was mega cool. Sadly, there aren’t nearly enough of those hyper-cool guys around. And since I’ve always been fascinated by cool and self-confident guys who, like male Pippi Longstockings, aren’t even remotely concerned about their effect on others but simply are as they are and do what they like, I found that guy up there extremely attractive. My friend saw him too and thought his performance most amusing.
And so we positioned ourselves at a strategic place within his field of vision and what do you know – he noticed us. I smiled up at him, waved and raised my glass. He smiled back, which started an intense ping-pong exchange of glances (garnished by my perfectly executed beaming smile) between me down there among the dancing throng and him up there on his marble pedestal. Encouraged by his attentiveness, I danced even more wildly. I loved how he watched me while I became a sexy hip-gyrating Supergirl. I guess the other girls now regarded me the same way as I regarded those cheap bimbos that dance on tables. But I didn’t care, because the sexy guy up there seemed to obviously enjoy both my performance and the beaming flirty offensive I had launched into.
It’s one thing to be attracted to someone from afar and, safely ensconced within a crowd, start to flirt cheekily. But will this person withstand closer scrutiny? Isn’t a flirting-from-afar situation so exciting simply because it contains the illusion of a person that we, at that moment in time, believe to be exceedingly charming and super sexy? It’s kind of like window shopping – we fall in love with this divine dress on display behind the glass pane, we think this is exactly what we’ve been looking for, and we imagine how great we’ll look wearing it and how we’re wearing it when we’re off to brunch one sunny Sunday and how wonderful we’ll look and how everybody will say how beautiful we are. It’s the perfect dress, as if it was made especially for us. And then we go in to try it on. The material is much too thin and shows every wobbly dent in our legs, the cut is awful, nothing fits, and the color doesn’t suit us at all. Let me kiss you good-bye, oh dream of a perfect summer dress! We leave the shop, disillusioned. That’s exactly what’s likely to happen with a flirt. After those thoughts had passed, I decided to just leave it as it was – a fantastic flirt – and not try and make anything else happen. All I did was blow a regretful farewell kiss to marble-pedestal-man and beam my bright smile at him for the last time. I was very curious about him and would have loved to get to know him better. But I knew me and I knew only too well where that could lead to. And since I really was with Number Ten, I made the heroic decision to be sensible for once and not to get involved with anything silly. Good girl! My friend and I scrambled through the teeming crowd of party folk towards the exit. We intended to go home.
Good girl? My foot! Suddenly Number Eleven stood in front of me. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back, saying forcefully: “You don’t think I’ll just let you take off without knowing your name and your phone number and when I’ll see you again?” Wow – was that sexy or what?! How cool! And so wonderfully manly! Still reeling from the heat created by all those hours of flirting, I thought him exceedingly tasty, even close-up. On my shoulder, Little Angel and Little Devil were kick-boxing the shit out of each other. Little Angel wanted to drag me away from him and Little Devil wanted me to throw my arms around Number Eleven there and then. Little Devil won. I didn’t exactly throw my arms around him but I gave him my phone number. And although I was very much aware of the fact that an actual handing out of my phone number would invariably and soon be followed by an actual intense physical encounter of the horizontal kind, I told myself that this would in no way endanger things with Number Ten. After all, you’re allowed to meet nice people, right? Right!
Naturally, the guy rang a few days later. He actually made me wait a few days. I’d kind of hoped he wouldn’t ring at all, thus avoiding the danger zone. Of course, I could have just sent him packing, like: “So sorry sweetie, I was drunk, forget it, you’re cute but I have a boyfriend and I think we’ll leave well alone.” But I just couldn’t. He asked to meet me and, like a hypnotized, drooling fool, I immediately said yes.
We met at my favorite club. I rang Number Ten and told him I was meeting up with my friends. First sure-fire sign that you’re up to no good: you lie to your boyfriend. Most suspect is a pointedly bored-sounding rendition of: “No, I don’t really have any plans, I’m just going to hang out with the girls.” I was excited as I waited for Number Eleven. Shit, I was early, so the great entrance would be his. Then, there he was. Self-confident and laid-back, he strode in through the door, tall, long dark coat, dark polo neck sweater and all of him so damn manly. When he stood in front of me, though, my first enchantment disappeared. Close up and without the influence of alcohol, he wasn’t all that ravishing. He’d gelled his hair in a funny way and his face looked decidedly boyish. What had happened to that hyper-cool guy dancing on his marble pedestal? Disappointment spread out inside of me – it’s not a good sign when the first thought during the first date is “Oh shit, what happened to his sex appeal?” instead of “Come here big boy, I want to gobble you right up!” But there we were, and I always thought that you should finish what you started. I’m sadly useless at pulling I-have-to-go-now stunts and so I keep ending up in these bad-girl situations. Number Eleven and I chatted amiably about this and that. There was some alcohol but nothing much, and eventually the evening began to be entertaining after all. In spite of the initial disappointment, naughty little thoughts started to dash through my head, wondering what it might be like with Number Eleven. Thoughts like that will of course add a certain spice to any conversation, however sober. And as a happily attached person I had of course no business thinking these thoughts at all. Why didn’t I just send them packing? No idea. Lust for adventure? Pushing to see how far I could and would go? Or did I simply want to do it, just for fun, regardless of the consequences?
Eventually we reached the point where my conversation subjects and I were exhausted. Despite all those dirty little desires, I just wanted to go home. Very sensible. Number Eleven, too, wasn’t heartbroken about ending our date. Ever the gentleman, he drove me home in his fabulous car. We chatted a little in the car before I scooted out: I said a perfectly matter-of-fact ‘bye and gave him no opportunity to even remotely consider a first kiss or the even worse obligatory should-I-come-up-for-a-coffee kerfuffle. He made no attempt to stop me. We didn’t raise the question of a possible next meeting. Back in my flat, I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, exhausted and proud of my resolve. What a lovely good girlie I am! Phew, nothing had happened. I rang my boyfriend, Number Ten, and wished him good night. The evening with
the girls had been so-so, I told him. My conscience was clear.
As it was winter and I’d been freezing my butt off, I decided to take a hot bath. And lying there, immersed in hot bubbles, my thoughts wandered back to the young man I’d just left standing outside my door. He was kind of sweet, wasn’t he? I wonder what it would be like with him? And even though I’d just felt proud as anything for not getting into trouble, suddenly the Very Hungry Caterpillar was back in charge. I just couldn’t leave it alone. I grabbed my mobile and wrote a text message thanking him for the lovely evening and sending him best regards whilst enjoying a hot bath. He’d be imagining me naked in the bath, writing this text – that was my ice-cold scheming plan. Suddenly I didn’t want the evening to have ended this way. And so I went all out. I wanted him to turn around and come back for coffee. And even though there hadn’t been many sparks flying between us all evening, I suddenly wanted to know, come hell or high water, whether he would come back in the middle of the night if I sent him unmistakable signals – even though he was on his way home, even though I’d just left him out there? Man, I was such a bitch!
First giving him the cold shoulder and pretending to be so disinterested, then suddenly sending him steamy text messages from my bathtub. My mobile bleeped a few seconds later. His reply: “Hot bath? I’m just trying to imagine you lying naked in the hot foamy water...” And the fish was on the hook. How easy was that! The ever-reliable key signals... A few raunchy bathtub texts went back and forth and then he rang me. “Shit,” I thought. “Spirits that I’ve cited... If I take this call I won’t be able to get out of this anymore.” But my brain, softened by bathwater and dirty thoughts, made my hand pick up the phone and answer it. Not a chance – horny is horny and common sense doesn’t even get a look in! Number Eleven wanted to know whether I was still in the bath. To prove my location, I splashed about a little. Then I did it: I asked him, with scheming hesitancy and coyness, whether he might maybe like to come over, right now? He just said: “Oh my God, I thought you’d never ask, I really couldn’t have stood it for much longer. I’m on my way!” and put the phone down. “Shit – now I’m stuck with him!” was all I could think. Whilst sinking into the remaining bubbles, grinning about my little performance. I’d won. He was on his way. At half past two in the morning. Just because I’d done my little splashing Venus number.
There followed the obligatory beauty check, the speedy version: legs shaved, steps taken to alleviate bikini area jungle, moisturizing lotion applied, face restored with the aid of the cosmetics industry’s most wonderful products, bathrobe on, wondering whether I shouldn’t better wear something underneath but no, that would wreck the entire stage production, after all I’ve just climbed out of the tub. And then there was the doorbell. In spite of all my scheming and manipulating, my heart was beating like crazy. I’d driven a perfect stranger so wild that he was about to jump me. “I hope he is good!” was all I could think of. Then I opened the door, wearing nothing but my bathrobe. The little angel on my shoulder said, taken aback: “What is wrong with you? It’s the middle of the night, you call some stranger to your home and open the door to him, dressed in nothing but a bit of toweling?” and disappeared for a few hours, appalled by what passed for my morals. And there he was, Number Eleven, neither of us said anything and right there, in the entrance, he grabbed me and kissed me. The kiss itself was perfectly good, no complaints, and kissing this stranger made me extremely randy. The entire scene was like something from a stereotypical B-movie: woman lolls lasciviously in the bath, purrs at guy down the phone, drives him nuts by providing bath-splashing fantasies, he rushes to her, she opens the door, her nakedness only just covered by fluffy bathrobe, and they jump each other, he fully clothed, she stark naked.
But even clichés can be very hot indeed. And it was extremely sexy how Number Eleven immediately took the bathrobe off me and held me, naked as I now was, tightly against his fully-clothed – coat, polo neck sweater, jeans, scarf, shoes - body. He was extremely aroused too, I could tell even through all his winter gear. I, naked, dragged him, fully clothed, across the flat to my bed. There’s something wildly thrilling about the contrast of being naked while the other person is still wearing all their clothes. You feel vulnerable and entirely at their mercy, which at times can be insanely hot, and at the same time you feel powerful and mighty because you can feel your own nakedness driving the other person out of their mind. But, in the interests of sexual equality, Number Eleven soon wasn’t wearing his winter gear anymore either.
Everything about him was big. Big head, big arms, big upper body, big butt, big legs. He wasn’t particularly well-toned but he wasn’t flabby either. He was simply massive and solid. Equally massive was his cock. He definitely owned the most enormous specimen I’d ever seen to date. A gigantic affair, enormous all around, width and length. It was flesh-pink in color. And – to top it all – it was adorned with prominent veins like the ones on those ugly plastic models at the dildo shop. I’d always assumed those weren’t copied from real life. Hey, maybe he was a cock model for vibrators? In porn vernacular, an exhibit like the one sported by Number Eleven would presumably be referred to as Bulging Truncheon. Or maybe Giant Shlong. I’d been of the opinion that I had pretty much been up and down the scale of cock sizes, but you learn something new every day! His giant equipment didn’t put me off, I was certainly aroused enough to take up the challenge. Still, I guess I must have looked a trifle nonplussed when Goliath was released from the confinement of Number Eleven’s underpants. We tried the classic he-on-top-of-me position first. His missile found the way in unguided, he just slipped in, I was extremely aroused and accordingly sopping wet between my legs.
But even so, the massive guy on top and inside of me practically took my breath away. His weight on me and his giant shaft inside of me made me feel as though I was in an experiment: (s)extreme endurance testing – how long until a woman is pounded flat and screwed through? It’s a mystery to me how women in porn movies manage, with not one but several massive guys with massive equipment messing about with them at the same time. In addition, Number Eleven was pretty ferocious, he thrashed about like crazy, moved and gyrated, up and down and back and forth. I don’t know how other women feel about this, but I find all this rubbing and thrashing and thrusting at humping-rabbit speed totally off-putting. I hate it! How are you supposed to concentrate on the state of your own arousal and your own orgasm, if the guy inside of you seems to think he’s in training for an Olympic thrashing contest? Soft, slow in and out is a hundred times more sexy, because that’s when you can actually feel everything, feel every centimeter of his cock, feel how he touches you and what these touches unleash in you. That’s what I call savoring. Sometimes it’s enough if he just stays there inside of me, all the way in, and doesn’t move anymore at all, and I can just concentrate on feeling him in there. I’ve had some major orgasms this way.
With Number Eleven working me over at full throttle and with little sensitivity, I realized very quickly that where wood is chopped, splinters must fall. So to speak. I simply wasn’t used to accommodating something of that size. After a very short time, things became highly uncomfortable for me. Having him move about in me was no longer arousing, it burnt and chafed. “Unreal!” I thought. “I’m actually screwed sore. That’s never happened to me before.” I just wanted it to finish now. In order to be able to have at least some influence on his thrusting and my own increasingly painful response, I got on top of him. I’d long given up on my own orgasm, there’s no way that’ll happen now. I was no longer turned on, I just wanted it to be over. Whilst moving carefully up and down on him, I grabbed his balls behind me with one hand. He groaned and begged me to stop, because that was so hot it would make him come immediately. Bingo! Of course I didn’t stop – that was exactly what I wanted to hear! Release! A few more up-and-downs, a few more ball-strokes, and, at long last, he came. He said “phew that was great” and sank back into the pillows. Exhausted, I sank down beside him. I sa
id nothing.
And so you lie there. Sore, non-climaxed and somewhat embarrassed because it just hadn’t been worth it. And you look at this guy and you realize that you don’t even like him, and that the thrilling tension that built up between you has completely evaporated and the only thing that’s left is cold disillusionment and his spilled soup between your legs. Was that really necessary? The little angel reappears from its hide-out and starts giving it loads, bashing your conscience. I couldn’t get myself to send him packing. Instead, I allowed him to fall asleep next to me. Dawn was breaking, and the lighter it got, the more I felt guilty towards my boyfriend, and the worse I felt about still having this guy in my bed. Why couldn’t I just have gone home and to bed, alone, like a good girl?
Oh, there it is again: 20/20 hindsight. Apparently, my sudden aversion to Number Eleven wasn’t sufficient to quell his awakening morning-lust. He tried a repeat performance in spoon position but I escaped by stating I had to have a shower first. I practically fled into the shower to escape the giant cock. But it didn’t work. A few moments later, there he was, in all his incomprehensible hugeness, his missile fully out and in place for the next assault. In daylight, it looked even more threatening, more flesh-pink, more ginormous in width and length. I was too tired to send him away. I’d invited this screw-fest and this guy into my life and I’d just have to get through it. Number Eleven and I did it under the shower. Under-the-shower sex, incidentally, works best if the lady stands braced against a wall, holds on to something and sticks her butt out. That way, the gentleman can penetrate her comfortably from behind and they are both fairly safe from slipping and sliding. Number Eleven was in full humping-rabbit mode again and I just let it happen, hoping it would be over quickly. I was really sore already and this wasn’t helping any. Looking back, I really wonder why I didn’t just send him home and what possessed me to let him do it again. I didn’t even care about him, we would never see each other again. Somehow, I just didn’t dare. How stupid! It was like the good girl resurfacing just at the wrong time.
The One - No one said it would be easy Page 11
