Three points of contact

This is one of my more tenuously-strung metaphors but it’s the one that entered my mind as his lips were fixed to mine, his left hand was cupping my tender pre-menstrual breast and his right hand was inside my pants exploring the floodlands between my legs. After a rushing thought of now, this is the life, I remembered old occupational health and safety training that ladders should only be climbed with three points of contact. I preferred that this tradesman was connecting to me in three simultaneous ways rather than the ladder fastened to the top of his work vehicle.

At one stage I opened my eyes to the view of the weak moon trying to illuminate the bay past storm clouds and the sparkle of lights from beachside homes and I was comfortable for once in such a public setting. I feel truly alive out in the contrast of bad weather during summer and was glad sightseers were deterred so we could use the clifftop lookout he knew about. His thumb had also wriggled inside my rear passage and I didn’t have much choice but to be transfixed on the wooden deck. I looked down and saw my almost-torn shirt revealing the pushed-up breasts his hand was learning by feel and I admired their alabaster-sheened swell when earlier I was hoping my period would arrive and bring with it relief from fluid retention.

He freed the wandering hand and brushed aside a couple of empty drink bottles left on the picnic bench behind us. His desire was raging and he had to taste me. This was the man who only a couple of hours ago spilled a drink because he was nervous and gave me a polite kiss on the cheek goodbye in the car park until he realised my hands were gripping his muscular shoulders. I reluctantly let go because we had already said we were interested but I couldn’t read the new signal of him leaving after one kiss — and I was tired of moving quickly and being discarded afterwards. He walked a few steps, turned suddenly and asked if I’d consider spending more time with him that evening. “Yes,” was the correct answer.

My lust and inner pragmatism fought a minor war at the bench and I pulled my pants down but kept my shoes on and pants around my ankles as I didn’t want to return down the dirt track with wet feet collecting mud. There was no logic, come to think of it, as I’d slipped in some mud on the way up. Being awash with lust is like having the same weakened powers of the mind as when drunk. I leaned against the back of the bench and he made a diamond shape of my lower limbs and kneeled on the cold concrete with his head between my legs. One of my hands grasped the bench and the other the zip and gusset of my pants to elevate my legs above his head. We would have looked ridiculous but at the time I could think of no other position or place I would have preferred to be.

He licked and probed with his tongue and my body curled around his with contented desire. He inserted fingers — lots, I don’t know how many — and plunged inside me until my body was alternating between screaming for kinder treatment and wondering if I might orgasm from the aggressive digital poundings. He must have curled some fingers and caused contusions with his knuckles as it’s the only explanation for internal sore spots the following day. He wasn’t brutal or unskilled but seemed overwhelmingly hungry, as if feeding from everything I could offer would barely temper his wild lust.

I came a couple of times but can’t recall how. In my reverie he pinched my nipples and I squirmed against the bench in pain — he apologised and stopped, and then something inside his head snapped and he became convinced that he had to fuck me. I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or intimidated by the surprising sexuality of this man but I needed to respond as my condoms were locked in my car. I hadn’t spent much time exploring his iron-built body and his jeans were still on, and I delayed the safe sex conversation by raising his shirt and lowering his jeans. I moved closer and my forehead almost crashed into a rock-hard wall of abdominal muscles. I held his buttocks as I took his flaccid cock in my warm mouth and his glutes were equally solid. I peeked down and saw upper thigh muscles that could have held up a bridge. It has been said that women like men larger than them as it feeds some kind of need for submission, but all I could think about was being together another time and fucking in every position and every room of his house until we couldn’t breathe from the effort. I assume that’s more basic lust than a desire to submit.

He was enthusiastic about the ministrations from my mouth but I couldn’t find a way to get him hard. I was about to ask what he liked and he said he couldn’t come while standing (phew, it wasn’t my technique) and he sat next to me and I buried my head in his lap. His cock is the ‘short and thick does the trick’ type and I could take most of it in from the side. His testicles were surprisingly compact, like grapes — as much as I’m becoming weary of learning new bodies at the moment, they never fail to surprise me. I thought incorrectly that a quicker tempo would work for him, but long and slow sucking got him hard and he placed a hand on my head and guided me softly. Again, I was incorrect as I assumed from his earlier behaviour that he’d be rougher. He soon said he was going to come and spilled a small amount of fluid in my mouth and sank against the bench. I nestled against his smooth stomach as he recovered.

We had to go and replaced our clothes before clambering down the track again. A van was parked close to my car and we could hear excited giggling from its interior. We smiled and I silently bid them as good a time as we’d just had.

We parted and exchanged thank you messages later. I am not allowing myself to feel or predict much because he was the man in the last paragraph of the previous post who responded to the ‘looking for an arrogant but likeable kinky bastard’ words in my profile. However, he has come across as one of the most frank and kind people I’ve met: earlier in the night he seemed eager to impress and I took a while to warm to him as the superhero body shots on his profile were topped with a mild-mannered face and I couldn’t imagine him being the arrogant sod behind the approach, let alone being as assertive in his sexuality as he showed later. I’m confused as all hell but somewhat intrigued by his contrasts. He is either a master player or far nicer than I am and my cynicism may not be worthy of him. I wish I was posting with a delay so I already knew the outcome.

2 thoughts on “Three points of contact

  1. mmmm
    I am awestruck at the way you capture some of these moments. That sense of losing all inhibitions as the urges overtake one’s sense of risk. The way that arousal overcomes caution never ceases to amaze me despite years of experiencing it.
    Busy car park in the middle of the afternoon? No worries, just lean back and let her lips wrap around my engorged cock.
    Country lane with a car every five minutes or so? No worries, let’s get in the back of the car and fuck.
    Picnic bench at a popular beauty spot? No problems, let’s lift her skirt and I’ll kneel and taste her.
    Woodland area where we know there’s occasionally a man with a gun? We still went back…

    The flame of desire is a very powerful thing

  2. Thank you — your praise means a lot.

    Hmmm, a busy car park is a bit too public for me … but then again, I might add it to my list. You already know the gun thing is pushing my limits!

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