Oh reader. I know what you’re thinking already – him again? Even with the sex faces? This time I’m cooking him dinner. I’ve asked a male friend what to cook and in pushing the boat out and practically setting sail with what I’ve prepared.
Straightaway this is odd because I’d very recently sworn I’d never do this again.
The lamb shanks are roasting along with the dauphinois and the martini glasses are in the fridge. The dessert is set and chilling. The table is laid and again I’m nervous about letting someone in.
I’ve even bought a fucking apron. But my plan is to play it cool.
He arrives with his usual swagger – one of his most attractive traits. A guy with a confident walk is hella hot, am I right?
He’s brought wine from a specialist shop, and he’s a bit earlier than he said.
I serve the food and we eat, and we talk about family and it’s lovely and we listen to music and he wants his dessert straight after, surprisingly.
Again, we retire to the sofa like in a Jane Austen novel except there are no conventions here and oh fuck he’s lifting up my skirt and pulling my knickers down slowly just the way I like it. I can’t remember the last time – if any time – any guy has gone down on me in the living room.
Of course this plays on my mind as he licks me like I’m a particularly delicious gelato.
I can’t fault his technique. I can’t. But something isn’t right.
We move to my bedroom and of course he continues to lap at my cunt. I know I can’t come, even sitting on his face his tongue goes too quickly or too furiously despite me trying to manoeuvre it in my favour.
He pulls me to the end of the bed and puts on a condom, holding my legs and thrusting into me. It’s a new position for me but again doesn’t seem to work.
Eventually he lets me sit on top, the way I love it. His stalk deliciously rakes my cunt and my clit bangs against him. I almost forget the sex face until it happens.
He isn’t good on the breast handling, that’s a black mark. That’s the one ticket to my orgasm – they’re hanging in your face as I fuck you so at least give them a tweak.
Somehow I slowly crawl my way to coming and cry out as he’s asked. He finishes a second after me and I bury my face in his shoulder so I can’t see his.
In the morning he leaves early and I feel pretty empty. I wanted more.
Late that night he sends a sweet message “Thanks for a cracking evening, and your hospitality”
And then he disappears.