The next day The Bachelor and I had arranged to spend the afternoon together. I experienced some trepidation because our first evening of sex was less than stellar, but reminded myself that I contribute at least half towards a lacklustre or sensational time and and rocked up with my mind on the latter.
He opened the door, looked down at me with coppery-brown eyes and grasped my chin as he kissed me hello. I didn’t realise last time, but there’s an authentic directness about him personality-wise and physically that I like a lot — there have been no dramas or mis-steps in our communication and he kisses and touches impulsively, kind of like an affectionate new boyfriend for a few hours who isn’t really a boyfriend and knows the boundaries. Also, we were in his bedroom about 30 seconds after our lips parted. I like that, too.
He apologised for his messy room and I removed his clothes and tossed them around, saying a few more wouldn’t matter then. He tormented me for a while with fingers in my cunt and anus while a thumb pressed my clit and I noticed later I had left a long slash of girl juices on the navy blue sheet.
He said that I seemed to need a hard pounding. By then, I wasn’t capable of intelligent conversation beyond, “Yeah!” He was on top and I curled under him and gripped his chest with clenched fingers as he went to town inside me. I think I may have bitten him when I came but he was too gentlemanly to say anything.
We felt too lazy afterwards to head out to the bondage supply shop as we had planned, but had lunch and stopped at a local sex product franchise that stocked the usual range of smut. I experienced choice overload after viewing the first few hundred vibrators and bought a small bottle of silicone lube and a simple prostate vibrator to trial on the willing men in my life — I saw a few more expensive toys designed for the male anatomy but I’m not using the ones I have on others enough to justify adding much to the arsenal. We looped quickly around the fluffy handcuffs and German porn and headed back to his house.
The afternoon session was slower and more luxurious, presumably (I thought without the benefit of hindsight) because we had exhausted the initial surge of lust and could explore languidly. I was partially correct. I sucked his cock for an exceedingly long time and rimmed him until he was at the stage of barely being able to speak like he had me earlier. When I returned to his cock and tasted pre-come he sat up and pushed me back for my turn, but something snapped in his mind and he said he needed to piledrive me again. I ended up on all fours and from behind he almost pushed my head through the wall until he reached orgasm and collapsed in a crumpled heap like the clothes on his floor.
He stayed where he was in a seemingly relaxed state and I reclined and enjoyed doing nothing more than doing nothing. Later he tried to talk but murmured unintelligibly. I fetched him water because he looked pale but he was too weary to hold the glass. He tried to sleep but writhed about on the bed until he got up and I could hear the click-clack of a keyboard. I found him alternating between pacing in his study and typing something — he confessed he’d only had three hours’ sleep the previous night combined with a couple of dozen mixed drinks at a Christmas party and the delayed reaction had hit him like a speeding truck after his final orgasm. I wasn’t keen on hanging around uncomfortably while his hangover evolved and I dressed and headed off into the evening. He gave me a lingering but wobbly kiss goodbye and I received a text message 24 hours later saying he was finally starting to recover.
I had worn him out again, but in a much more positive way than last time.