In November of 2010 I was about to move out of my marital house into my own apartment. Every cell in my body was screaming and crying, yet my veneer was like a mountain lake. I was icy, detached. Lost and lonely.
Dave was the second guy I met. He had washboard abs and looked a little like John Cusack. I’d invite him over for tea (and bourbon) while my kid napped and we’d kiss a little before he’d leave. Our first official date was an out-of-town affair at a sausage festival. “Should I book one bed or two?” he’d asked when making our hotel reservations.
“Surprise me,” was my loaded response.
That night we drank two pitchers of beer and I poured whiskey on my tits as I rode him on the squeaky hotel bed. It was one of the hottest nights I’d had in years, but little did I know my life was about to change forever the next afternoon: I had my first date with Troy.
Dave drove me home where I changed quickly and tied my hair back in a messy ponytail. I clearly had sex-hair, but I didn’t care. I was turned on by the thought of going from one man’s bed to another’s arms for a date. Dave thought it was pretty great, too.
I texted Troy that I’d be a little late. He’d said no problem. I arrived at the local haunt to find him reposing on the flower beds, all 6’6″ of him. He stooped to hug me as I tilted my head back to return the embrace. He was cuter in person, I’d thought.
Lunch was uneventful until he grabbed my wrist and asked after my bracelet. “What does this mean?” he wanted to know and for emphasis stroked the metal — and my skin — with a long finger. My pulse quickened and I looked at him with new eyes. This guy knew what he was doing.
After lunch we went back to his place, a cavernous two bedroom loft-like apartment a few blocks away. There was a ladder under the dining room table in lieu of a place to sit. “So I would stop nearly decapitating myself,” was his answer to my silent question.
“Ha!” I snorted, “Us little people don’t have to worry about things like that,” and I demonstrated by passing under the offensive lamp with a twirl. He poured me a glass of wine and we sat on the couch. I loved his reach and sheer size. I’m not a petite woman; I like to be made to feel diminutive, and my personality is huge: hobble me, please.
We made out some that afternoon and I had to pull back from following him upstairs. The birds were singing too loudly. I wanted to play hard to get, not roll out the pussy-carpet. His lips were soft and pliant, his weight pinned me to the couch. We made plans to see each other the very next day, Sunday. I left his place not feeling my feet hit the ground and his soapy, masculine scent in my nostrils.
I was a little nervous as I drove to his house after dark 24 hours later. His physical presence, while obviously anatomically looming, also filled me with a buzzing excitement. We had chemistry.
He opened the door in jeans and a t-shirt. I walked up the steep wooden stairs ahead of him knowing he was probably checking me out in my tights and boots. My hips swung harder. He offered me some wine, I obliged. I teased him about his freakish height. We laughed.
Conversation was easy and flowed as we sat on the couch together. He was on the cushion next to mine. The conversation turned to sex.
I told him about how my first orgasm was on the back of a horse; about how I once won a blue ribbon in a college equitation competition after I had orgasmed for what felt like minutes in the arena with five judges’ eyes on me; about my first cock experiences (big, tiny, big, etc.). Then I told him about my wild night with a friend in September.
My story was stilted, but I did my best to remember some of the finer moments: I was soaking wet, he fucked my face, I swallowed his cum, I was vibrating.
He took a deep breath then and told me he had “big cock” fantasies. About touching one, sucking one, seeing one live and in person. “Holy shit,” I stammered, “That’s my fantasy, too! Being with two men…”
His sherry colored eyes bore into mine, the pause was heavy and humming. Two beats more and he closed the gap between us and his mouth was on mine, passionately. He laid on top of me and gyrated his hips into mine. He kept kissing me and kissing me and kissing me. His hands roamed all over my body, my mind raced. All logic left my head and I abruptly panted between kisses, “Let’s just go fuck. C’mon,” and I took his hand and he jumped up after me.
On my way up the stairs I unzipped my skirt, inside the doorway it was on the floor, by the time I got to the bed my shirt was off. I spun around and lay back on the bed to watch him undress.
He was huge, broad-shouldered and had a smattering of soft, downy chest hair. His cock took my breath away, dark and throbbing between the creamy white of his thighs. The next several hours were a blur of huge cock in a soaking wet pussy. I had never been fucked like that in my life. Never.
He was on top of me, piling into me, so large over my smaller form. His headboard cracked with disapproval under my grip and I pushed against the wall instead, impaling myself on him. His grunts and cries compelled me to thrust down harder on him; his cock hard on my g-spot I lost all sense of myself and could do nothing but buck wildly down on him. He turned me on my left side, swung my right leg over, but kept my bottom leg between his and found a new way to stroke my screaming cunt from the inside. He pumped into me a few more times, cried out deeply and fell on top of me, kissed my ear.
We laughed, panting, and sweating. He was overjoyed at going balls-deep with me, said he could feel my cervix. Said he could rarely do that with women. I’m unbelievably wet. Like gushing wet. My body had become a fucking faucet. He kept laughing and saying how amazing it was, shaking his head.
I asked him for his social security number and $20.
I let him rest unassaulted until I couldn’t stay away a moment longer. I fell down on his suddenly rigid cock with my eager face. I was feeling something for a change. Really feeling something. The ice had receded and I was warm, then hot. I felt alive for the first time in months, maybe even years. I wasn’t going to stop.
Fat on the bottom, slightly tapered at the top, his balls pliant in my hands. I could taste a little of the condom, and a lot of me. I sucked harder, alternated my grip strength and my exploration of his perineum. He shot a delicious load down my throat and I swallowed it with gusto, kissed him on the mouth and lay on his big chest smiling and proud of myself. He was in shock.
I asked him what his orgasm-in-a-single-night record was and he said, “Three.”
I glibly replied, “We’re gonna break it tonight.”
On top, straddling his hips, I rode him like I was galloping with gunmen at my back. My arms felt hot and heavy, my face flushed; I relished his big paws on my hips pushing and pulling me on top of him. My pussy released herself all over the cradle of his hips. I didn’t know what was happening to me, I felt like a bear in a trap: confused and riled up, seething with something. I saw stars, had a sense of elation unlike anything else, I kept fucking him, crying out again and again. He came again. Number 3.
This time I offered him my social security number and $20. He smiled and said, “I’m at your cervix.”
On the bottom, I heard more cracking of the headboard, more deep-voiced cries, my entire body was my moaning cunt, pulsing, pouring juices, ejaculating all over us; every thrust is a ripple of pleasure to my very fingertips, except they’re coming at breakneck speed, falling and crashing down on top of one another.
I started to cry and laugh. It felt so good I couldn’t help myself. I was completely overwhelmed. I have left the motherfucking building. He flipped me over on my stomach and drove into me with violent, hammering thrusts. I envisioned splitting in two, cried and laughed into his sweet-smelling sheets. Got impaled. By a giant. He came a fourth time like I’d promised he would.
“I know how your hair got to look the way it did yesterday,” he said grinning holding me in his arms. He gave my long locks a little tug, “From fucking. Am I right?” I answered with a shy smile and curt nod. “Mmm, I love it,” he murmured into my neck.
Something had just happened to me. This is what I had been craving my entire life. This out-of-body pleasure, this total consummation of my physical being, my sexual soul exposed and devoured, freedom to be who and what I wanted to be and to shout it to the rafters. Fuck that whole notion that great sex can’t happen out of the gate, I say. Either it’s there, or it isn’t, and when your heart isn’t involved that’s all there should be, clearly.
I spent the next 8 months having mind-blowing sex with Troy at the expense of my own emotional welfare. He was cruel and insensitive on two legs, a wondrous magician of a lover off of them. He helped me learn my own body in ways I never even knew existed and to this day use with my current lovers. No woman had ever sucked him off before and my techniques with him have proven tried and true with others of his ilk. His cock pounding on my cervix and g-spot taught me how to teach others where to find it. And his rabidly unjust personality taught me to fight for my rights and to walk away with my chin held high.