Random Rim Jobs

My date began when he picked me up at my place.  I did not have him come in.  After all, there’s no reason any date needs to meet my ex-husband or the ex-husband’s girlfriend.

We drove to the Richmond, a neighborhood to which I’d been before but with which I’m not overly familiar.  One of the things for which the Richmond is infamous is the inability to find parking, so after a couple of circles my date found parking several blocks from Tommy’s, our dinner and drinks destination for the evening.

During the walk a woman inquired as to the location of a street.  My date, being familiar with the neighborhood, was able to direct her appropriately.  After getting directions the woman went on her way, walking rather quickly ahead of us.  My date and I continued to walk and talk until our attention was grabbed by the woman, up ahead … lying in the street.  She was several feet from us and we didn’t bother quickening our pace because surely she would get up before we reached her.

Only she didn’t get up.  So we quickened our pace and my date helped her up.  We hadn’t noticed when she asked directions, but she was clearly intoxicated.  Clearly.  She kept saying she was fine.  She was so not fine.  The contents of her purse had spilled onto the street.  A lens each of her regular and sun glasses had popped out of the frames, both of which she was grasping tightly in her left hand.  My date and I picked up the lenses and dropped them into her purse.

My focus was on getting her out of the street.  She kept insisting she didn’t need any help, but we knew she definitely did.  While getting up she dropped her purse again.  And again.  Books and other stuff kept spilling out.  My date got her to the sidewalk.  I got everything in her purse.  Her phone was ringing in her pocket.  She finally let go of her glasses, which I put in her purse, so she could answer her phone.

When we left her she was standing – albeit not completely upright – on the sidewalk talking on her phone.  Her purse with its contents properly inside was over her shoulder.  We walked away quickly, fearing we’d be drafted into helping her find her way to her destination, holding her up, or otherwise.  We looked back to see she was still upright and eventually my date saw her duck into a doorway.  We went to Tommy’s.

Tommy’s has very good margaritas, for sure.  But the restaurant has barely changed since it opened in 1965.  At least that’s the way it seems.  The waiters are, for the most part, older than dirt.  They’re surly.  And gimpy.  The salad, which comes with every dinner, is iceberg lettuce, two slices of radish, and a few strands of jack cheese covered with salsa and topped with a few sprigs of curly parsley.  Dinner was ok.  Margaritas were yummy.

We went back to his place.  We drank wine out of silver wine glasses.  Well, not glasses, as they were silver.  Silver goblets.  I pointed out that at least they don’t break.  He pointed out that they do break, just not like wine glasses.  Instead the stems break.  Well, at least one can feel important drinking out of a goblet so heavy and ren faire-esque.

From his couch we could see his bed in his bedroom.  Noticeably absent was a headboard.  Wha?  One of the reasons I was interested in this guy was because he was into rope bondage.  Isn’t a headboard a very basic foundation of tying people up?  Hmmm.

So we made our way to his bed.  I had been craving a proper fucking since my sad very-quickie.  Actually, I had been craving a proper fisting.  Despite my love of getting fisted I still don’t really look at potential sex partners’ hands.  Maybe I should start.

I should also start having my lube of choice with me on dates.  My date, unfortunately, had only a KY brand of lube.  Their lubes are perfectly serviceable, but tend to get tacky and don’t last all that long.  They’re made for old fashioned vaginal intercourse, which we didn’t have at all that night.

Instead – though I certainly don’t think of what we did as a consolation to intercourse – his big, thick hand fisted me.  Twice.  If you don’t own a pussy that’s been fisted perhaps you won’t get this, but there is something about the initial pain of getting the widest part of the hand in – at the base of the thumb – and then the realization and settling in of a whole hand inside my pussy that I fucking love.  Love it!

And I love getting what I can only describe as punch-fucked.  I whole hand in my cunt absolutely going as hard as it possibly can given the limited space is fucking wonderful.  Sometimes – and I did that night – I ask that the fist be pulled all the way out of my cunt and forced back in, fast and hard.  Hard.

I ask for it to be harder.  I can’t be quiet.  “Fuck me.  Fuck me.  Fuck me … harder.  Harder.  HARDER.”

He was fucking perfect.  He fucked me hard with his whole hand.  And he told me he wanted me to scream.  Given permission to scream even louder?  Yes, thankyouverymuch.  You want to hear me scream.  HEAR ME FUCKING SCREAM.

And I came.  And it was fucking great.

He said I was a squirter.  Uh, no, I’m not.  I’m not a squirter at all.  I’ve been squirted upon, and it’s a beautiful and glorious thing, but I most certainly am not a squirter.  I wish.

I sucked his cock.  He came in my mouth.  Thank you.  Thank you very much for letting me taste your come.  I want to taste all the come.  The clean and the dirty.  The smooth and the lumpy.  The bitter and the sweet.  All of it.  [Yes, I am aware that little sequence was really fucking cheesy, cliche, and lame.]

Then he was nice enough to fist me again.  Really, quite nice.  Again he told me he wanted to make me scream.  He did.  I came fucking good and fucking hard.  I reached down and my thighs were all wet.  Very wet.  Not in an artificial lube way, nor in a natural lube way.  In a wet-like-water way.  Only not like water.  Slightly more viscous than water.  Very slightly.

I am not a squirter.  I am, however, a gusher. It’s thin and it’s wet and it’s gorgeous.  And it happens when a big fucking hand is pounding the shit out of my cunt.  I love that I can take it that hard.

Which of course makes me think of that engagement ring in my pussy ….

I swear.  True story.