He was one of those who liked to message a lot. We’d met the once but were planning to fuck the second time.
The first date we got on well but I messed up at the end by appearing too keen. I didn’t even like him that much – I’d been out of the dating game too long and was very rusty.
He was younger than me, a sort of blustering posh boy. I think he even wore a scarf. (Never trust a man in a scarf)
The second time we met in a pub closer to mine. We drank red wine and sat opposite each other across a huge table. It could have been an interview. We were both nervous.
He’d messaged me about wanting to fuck me over a table, which was amusing me no end. Here was the table and nowhere was the fuck. We’d shared fantasies and orgasms over Whatsapp but this was lame. We finished our drinks and left.
Back at mine I saw no signs of the dominance which had turned me on in his messages. I think I had to suggest we move activities upstairs.
He was bewildered by my body, unable to undo my bra. Yet an erection was forthcoming and he appeared aroused.
I climbed aboard and rode his cock to orgasm. He just lay there – which sometimes is actually just what you want. No strange moves, no thrusting from beneath.
I lay there for a while panting, hungry for more. My motor had just got started and I was ready for a night of it.
“I think I’d better be getting home” he said suddenly.
He dressed quickly and at the door said “I’d really like to do this again, maybe next week?”

I never saw or heard from him again.