The Italian

We met outside the station. I had walked past him several times as he didn’t look quite like the picture he’d sent me. And it was dark.

He was nervous and suggested we go straight to his rather than for a drink. Fair enough, I thought. He then led me back to the train station I’d just got off at and took me to the outskirts of town.
The journey was awkward at best. He had no conversation. I just smiled.
When we got off, he started talking. Dull stuff, like asking what I did and how long I’d lived in the city. His English wasn’t very good.

And then we embarked on an incredible journey – across a rugby field, down an embankment, past a dual carriageway, under an underpass, down an alleyway. It felt like we’d walked a couple of miles.

We ended up in suburbia. He led me to a house and told me to take my shoes off. I hung up my coat and the hook actually came off the wall.
All the signs were bad. But here I was and he was pouring wine.
We sat in a stark living room with a puke coloured leather sofa. No music. No dimmed lights. No character or conversation pieces. He fiddled around with the wine and suddenly started kissing me, stretching his body over mine to reach my mouth.
It was bad. But also quite good.

We fumbled around for a while, sussing each other out. He smelt good but something was not quite right. I have a real problem with fucking on sofas (always unlucky) so I suggested we go to bed.
He couldn’t undo my bra. He fumbled for ages and I had to help him out. He sucked my nipples too gently and I was getting too impatient.
He took off his pants and displayed an unmemorable member. I can’t recall how big or what it looked like. He wouldn’t actually let me get near it. No touching, no sucking, no fun at all. br/>
By now I was gagging for it. I’ve never had a problem getting wet for a guy. Even in this sad scenario. br/>
We kissed some more and held each other close, grinding together a little. His body was lean and hard and he felt better naked against me. I suggested he get a condom and off he went on a grand search.
I idly fingered myself until he came back. The room was bare, the bed was single and it wasn’t sexy at all. Of course he couldn’t get it on. I helped out. I felt like a teenager as he started to finger me, I guess to get himself ready, and check if I was. Little did he know I was ready at ‘Hello’.

He let out a sigh. and then ‘I’m sorry’.

I looked at his cock. It wasn’t hard anymore. He’d come in the condom before he’d even got it inside.

“It’s okay” I said, realising that I was unlikely to get satisfied this evening. He fingered my pussy for what seemed like an age, until it was actually dry again and his fingers were hurting me.

I got up. Put my clothes on. He said something like ” I think that’s it”.

(No shit Sherlock)

then

“I’ll walk you to the bus”.

He wanted me to leave, embarassed by his failure. I’m not a cold hearted bitch, I would have stayed there and held him all night if he’d wanted.

This poor inexperienced guy who’d come in a condom rather than my rather wet accommodating pussy.

It was definitely a whimper.

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