The battle of the detached

I resurrected a log-in with a view to finding a distraction of the forget-my-current-troubles kind.

Someone I’ve met previously (I didn’t post about the encounter but it was the young man in the e-mail a few months ago) who pinged my profile with the caption “I’d like to know more about you.” I sent a message saying we had already met, together with a brief run-down of the circumstances (I’m not sure how many women he’s had leaving their juices over the upholstery of his parents’ car that he could forget, and my user name for this account is distinct). My response was more a hint for him to keep track of his liaisons than an expression of interest and I returned to the business of searching for something I already knew didn’t exist.

We ended up being online at the same time and discussed his promises of greater pleasure. The next night he had a couple of hours of alone time and invited me over; perhaps this is where I confess he’s half my age if his profile is accurate. This time, in the light of his family home, I could see his face looked older and I thanked our harsh sun for making me feel less like I was splashing in a different generational pool. Then again, being in something for the same reasons can transcend age.

I can’t get a grip on what drives him sexually; I think it’s more about proving himself than letting himself go with abandon. He’s gloriously enthusiastic about toys, rimming and squirting among other things but there’s a cold spot in his heart and he seems detached from the moment. There’s a cold spot in mine at times that is distant and this night both of ours clicked together like the correct combination spun on a safe’s tumbler.

He shoved his long and thick cock down my throat and I took it repeatedly until tears streamed down my face.

He slapped my backside bright pink and I retaliated by doing the same with his; his strikes hurt but I made sure I giggled throughout the stings.

He took me to his bedroom, laid me on towels and had my body convulsing and spraying possibly a dozen times.

He moved into the 69 position and I rimmed him in every way I knew while his cock thrusted in the cleft between my breasts.

He took one of my vibrators and held my legs at the ankles so I couldn’t buck him off when he continued to apply pressure to my clit after orgasm. I had to remove myself mentally from the situation and breathe myself to calmness while the other me was forced to accept the treatment. I wasn’t going to admit defeat.

He returned to fingering me while in the 69 position and I sprayed on my own face. I looked up in my mind-fucked state and wondered how it was raining inside, and realised it was my fluids refracting in a perfect arc above him onto me.

He ignored me when I said I was done after an hour of orgasms of every kind and he turned to lower himself and penetrate me. I flinched when he started to enter me without protection; I grabbed the condoms I had brought but they didn’t accommodate his girth so I sucked him to completion.

He didn’t comment on the things I did to him during this time, as if I was the apprentice proving myself. I’ve been around long enough to not worry. When our eyes met he looked at me daringly, assured of his cockiness — my body’s responses were all the feedback he needed and I probably shouted a few compliments in the moment along the way. He reminds me of Country Hottie as far as skill in working the female form but without the accompanying warmth of the encounter. But this man is not yet 21 years old, for goodness’ sake. He’ll make a lot of women feel good but not necessarily satisfied until he learns to give more than his technical skills.

Then again, he was probably left wondering why I looked at him sometimes and didn’t have anything to say; I didn’t allow him any opportunity to scratch more than the surface.