He was just a fuck buddy. I can’t remember how many times we fucked or over what period. That doesn’t matter.
His body was pretty buff with no hair, like his head. I didn’t even fancy him, always the best material for a FWB. I loved riding him, and he always had pretty good stamina, our sessions were long, strenous and satisfying for both of us. He was also an amazing kisser, with beautiful full lips.
He had an open relationship with an American girl and he was basically saving up to go join her. But obviously needed something to bang in the meantime.
We fucked pretty much every week. He’d come over and give me a good seeing to, sometimes staying over but mostly leaving straightaway.
One particular time we’d gone to bed. I’d got pretty drunk on gin I recall – back then I needed something to get rid of my inhibitions. That night I was pretty out of it.
All I can remember is riding his cock, straddling as if he was a fairground ride; and him with his hands all over me, kneading my tits, holding my shoulder, pumping me hard and me coming time after time until I fell back on the bed in a crumpled messy heap.
The bed was soaked. I couldn’t understand it. I asked him what had happened.
“You squirted. It was you”
“You squirted. You came really hard that last time, it’s all over me, and the bed”
I had no clue what he meant. But went along with it.
It was years later before I understood what he meant.
And I’m still waiting for someone to pull the trigger again.