Jan. 30th, 2012

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On the train home now from a weekend with my Oglaf boy, who continues to be a constant source of joy and delight: easy, comfortable and fucking hot, patient and persistent, thoughtful and well-mannered, quick-witted, filthy, and delightfully abrasive and absurd in his sense of humor. And just such, such a good kisser. Also: such, such a good fit once I'm stretched so he can fit; the fit of his cock in me, the feel of him against me, especially when I'm playing with his nipples, is just such a turn-on. His cock makes me come, which is the best possible surprise; his cock also puts me in intense, not-quite-coming, not-quite breathing ecstasy. Our fucking leaves me drenched; I've spent the whole weekend wet, dripping; I don't remember anyone who makes me so consistently so so wet.
And consistently it was: we fucked 12 times between 15.45 Friday and my getting on a 16.48 train on Sunday. 4 times to orgasm for him on Friday; two times for me; and one late night we're-so-tired-we're-too-clumsy-to-fuck-but-oh-so-turned-on fumble. Saturday morning before breakfast, once but sans orgasm. Saturday afternoon, we wandered around a modern art museum; he fingered me in the center-of-the-gallery film display, my sitting discreetly on his lap, and equally discreetly suitably attired. (Stockings and miniskirt? A winter coat to carry and cover my lap with? Works a treat.) We then took a ride on the Ferris wheel we happened to stumble across; and got a good minute of fucking in at the top of the arc. Absurd, but very very hot. Another location to add to add to my list...
Home, fortified by cake (he baked me cake! Sweetest boy ever!), of course we tumbled into bed, the afternoon's constant touching and teasing, too-intense-for-a-public-space kisses and quick gropes - and of course the speed fuck - all building to there being no other place on earth to logically be, nothing else we could possibly do. Two intense, efficient fucks in rapid succession, the first one exhausting us, the second evolving from our languid (and then signficantly less languid) postfuck cuddle. I made him come, for the first time in his life, by being ridden.
We cannot spoon with me as the small spoon without him becoming aroused, rubbing his hands on my breasts, along my stomach, the curve of my hips, kissing my neck, the weight of his cock building against me.
He cooks, I've discovered. Two quite successful dinners. He cuddles well, during a few hours of a rather funny television series; one non-serious enough that I can get distracted by kissing him, his seeking lips, that lovely bit of metal part of my kiss.
Fucking that night abandoned for exhaustion, the boy sleepy.
Today. Morning. Me, bleary, then awake and fucking. Made him come from a blowjob, also for the very first time in his life. All your toaster points are belong to us, I think...
Two this afternoon. One to say goodbye, then showering and packing, and then one because it would be the best possible use of half an hour, and I didn't actually need to be on the train I'd planned to be on...
Me: "I've been impressed by how well we've clicked.
Him: "We've always clicked, we just didn't know it yet, because we didn't know each other."
A few points of concern:
The intensity of his fondness for me. We had a chat, and have agreed that we are lovers. We are not friends with benefits, this is not a one-off thing. But he seems very, very fond; I've left him a bit of my Lush shampoo bar, because he wanted something that smells of me.
Fucking yesterday evening, he stated he liked the position because it made him feel like all of me, all the length and depth of me, belong to him, was his. "Like you're all mine". He's not mine, and the notion of him and his fiancee fucking on our soiled sheets this evening because she gets off on him fucking other women - this is hot stuff. Because those sheets are very, very soiled. My concern: did he check with her, though?
My appetite for him is currently insatiable, this beautiful reserved boy who comes like he's headbanging; his lipring, curiously, reminding me that I'm kissing him, uniquely him, the specific insistence of his kisses unique to D.
But while my appetite is insatiable, my enjoyment incessant, I'm not in love with him. He's emphatically not mine; he's emphatically far away; my ability to go home again is part of what makes him so appealing. He's not as high energy as me (though he's now introduced me to a lovely TV show, and tried to teach me a new computer game), but overall, just lovely company.
Has the curious effect on me of making me want to tell him embarrassing emotional truths I've never told anyone else before. Apparently he often as this effect on people?
And vice versa, he asked at some point how everyone who met me wasn't in love/lust with me; I was so obviously compellingly hot.
So hoping he's good about making his girlfriend feel safe and loved, and despite their current comms problems.
....
And now I'm writing filth on a crowded train, my seatmate politely engrossed in his book, or so I'm assuming.

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snowylinenland

April 2012

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