Red red wine

I am on a date. My first in over a year. It is going well. We have covered travelling, work, comedy, TV, music, pets and a bit of homeowner stuff. I fancy him. He is better in the flesh and I imagine myself in a relationship with him. I like his hair, his eyes, his shoes and just about everything. Except the fact he is good at interrupting me and then not going back to my story but explaining his.

We finish our first round and I ask if he wants another. He does, so I go around the bar and watch him from behind. He doesn’t get his phone out or look around. I’m grinning.


The rounds continue, we move to more intimate seating but he doesn’t make a move on me. So far he’s only touched my shoulder. I keep laughing and he keeps thinking I’m laughing at him. (He clearly hasn’t read the blogs on “how to tell if someone fancies you”). The bar closes and the tannoy announces “the complex is closing” so we giggle our way out of there and try and find somewhere else to drink.

In the movie version of the date, the camera will pan across to one of the tackiest pubs I’ve ever been in. As it’s supposedly a hotel I guess it’s open later on a Sunday. I don’t need more wine but here I am with a terrible tasting glass of vinegar after the delicious Malbec I’ve just had. I count 6 television screens in my view all showing a game of football in which we can’t make out the teams.

This bar also has to close so we slip into the station to get trains home. He is Overground, I am Underground. He does a stupid sad face and I cave in, cursing myself.


 

Back at mine, he removes his shoes without me asking him to and requests more wine. I have only one bottle of red and really don’t want any more. He sits cross-legged on the floor which puzzles me as I have plenty of seats. We start to watch “Jaws” which- now I think about it- is possibly the oddest first date movie ever. I ask him to sit next to me and suddenly I realise its after 1am and I have work in the morning.

We go upstairs and he carries the bottle and glasses. The next few hours are very hazy. I have a ridiculous assumption that NOTHING WILL HAPPEN and MY CLOTHES WILL STAY ON. I don’t remember getting undressed, but I do remember how he pulls my breasts out of my bra exclaiming how fantastic they are. I do remember how beautiful his cock is and how I can barely keep it out of my mouth. I do recall how he holds his wine while I’m doing it and asks for another bottle (which I ignore). I do remember how he spits on his fingers and rubs my clit maniacally. He does the same with my breasts, spitting directly on them and biting my nipples too hard.

We go for every position known to man and I love how he takes me from behind, but putting his whole weight on my back, craving the closeness.

I can’t come. Have I actually had too much sex already this year?

The Doxy comes out. He is fascinated by it, and me using it and rubs his cock furiously as I try to orgasm.

I realise it is now 5.18 am and tell him I need to be up in four hours.

——–

I actually wake at 8, feeling like death. I manage to make it downstairs for water and paracetamol. Sadly these are brought up not long after. I sit on the sofa, wondering how to wake him up. He groans as I tell him I have to leave in half an hour. We do the walk of shame together, a short tube ride and kiss goodbye with pursed lips.

The sense of guilt is immense as I head to a full day of meetings.

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