A Diary of my One-Night Stands, vol. 2

A few weeks ago, I started a new series of posts, documenting some of the one-night stands I’ve had over the years. To read the background (and vol. 1), click here.

Lily

Confession: I knew sex was on the table from your very first DM:

“Upon hearing whispers of your notorious reputation I did think you were a bit of a dick for a while, but I’m starting to warm to you now. Keep up the good work…x”

I don’t have a sixth sense for these things, exactly, but time and experience teach you any number of valuable lessons, especially when it comes to fucking. Something in your tone – direct and just a little provocative – immediately grabbed my attention. It’s not the way most people introduce themselves to total strangers, even on the Internet. What were you warming to, I wondered, but didn’t ask.

What I will say is that the knowledge we’d probably fuck predated – and existed independently of – any realisation on my part that I fancied you. It often does. A spark of interest is struck, and flickers silently in the darkness, before either of us have got round to filling in the rest of the picture. Events are set in motion, but whether or not they ultimately come to pass relies on decisions that won’t get made till we’re a lot closer to wherever they’re taking us.

Before those first few messages, I was merely aware of you: no more, no less. Had someone shown me your avi as part of some pseudo Rorschach Test, I might have used the words ‘acerbic’ or ‘blunt’ in my response. Hard – on the outside, at least. You pulled no punches, that was clear, but you took no bullshit either. And you were pretty – that much I certainly had registered.

Consciously or not, those few broad data points helped shape our early exchanges. I was matter-of-fact, rather than playful; I kept my replies short, and tried to avoid anything too suggestive or silly. When you mentioned my writing, I sent you a few links, then sat back and let you take charge of things.

Logistics initially looked tricky. You were free when I was busy, and vice versa. Still, the time we spent considering each possible window was the first sign that you were actively keen, rather than a passive accomplice to whatever was about to happen. After a night on the lash, Canary Wharf to Kings Cross for a 1pm train on Sunday lunchtime isn’t a journey many people would willingly start at 9am unless they really wanted to spend a few hours getting laid.

And with that settled, you immediately switched gears.

If the sexting was good, your photos were even better. Not fancy, nor artfully lit, but candid, filthy, and most of all hot. They were sent with the intention to arouse, rather than to impress, and in that they succeeded. You gave every impression of loving your own body – of finding yourself hot – and few qualities are more attractive than that.

To some, the whole conversation may have felt transactional, focused as it was on the whats and the whens, rather than the whys. I prefer to think of it as enjoyably straightforward. Neither of us tried to spin out this first scheduled encounter into anything more elaborate than a basic Sunday fuck, and I sensed no expectation on your part that we’d continue to correspond once you left my flat.

You didn’t ask about my life beyond blogging, and best of all, you seemed entirely indifferent to who else I might be seeing. “So…do you fuck all your female followers?” is a question I’d already started to find tedious by that point, not least because a simple “no” rarely proved sufficient for the kind of person who felt the need to vocalise it. It served as a proxy for everything from “am I special?” to “I fundamentally disapprove of your lifestyle, but still really want your cock”, and was the quickest way to dampen my ardour ahead of a first meeting.

There was no danger of that with you. A couple of days before making the trip down to London, you asked my permission to come, which instantly made your orgasm – or your growing need to have one – a very pleasant mental distraction for large chunks of the next 72 hours.

Conversation was minimal during that time, but I never doubted that you’d rock up at my place on Sunday morning, as promised, however wild your Saturday night turned out to be. You just seemed too straightforward for any game-playing or last-minute flakiness – and I definitely mean that as a compliment. So when the doorbell rang, a few minutes before 10am, I was already primed for your arrival. In every sense.

It was always one of the things I loved most about my old flat: that period right before someone came over for sex. It felt like such a wonderful mix of anticipation, relaxation, and comfort. After taking a shower, tidying my room, and completing any other necessary preparations, I’d often just get back into bed, naked, and spend the last few minutes idly touching myself, or thinking about all the things we were about to do.

In your case, there was one very obvious starting point. “It’s ages since I last had good oral,” you said, as we kissed in my room. “Ages.”

You weren’t shy about asking for it, and you certainly weren’t shy about showing your appreciation once I got started. Spread out naked on my bed, your body looked even more lush; a riot of full, generous curves with a runner’s muscles underneath. I wanted all of it, immediately, but managed to slow myself down enough to focus on your cunt and clit, and on the way your breathing changed with each minute I spent between your legs.

“How rough do you like it?” I asked, when you climbed on top of me a short while later. “You’ll have to fuck me hard and find out,” you replied, sliding all the way down onto my cock in one movement. Still blunt, I thought; still acerbic – but someone who really does know how to use few words to great effect.

It was easy enough to roll you off me afterwards, and you needed no prompting to push yourself up onto hands and knees, legs spread wide. I fucked you like that as hard as I could – hard enough to make the bed shake and creak as our bodies slammed together. When I started to get close, you sensed my hesitation – that momentary pause, the slowing in rhythm – and turned to look at me. “Don’t hold back, I want you to come. Do it now…”

…and of course I did. Almost impossible not to, when someone puts it like that.

Later we chatted over tea in bed, and played a bit more, but neither of us had much energy left after that first round. You left for your train in bright sunshine, a big grin on your face. “It’s been a really good weekend,” you said, and I could tell you meant it.