A libertine was born.

[Ed. Note: PLEASE NOTE THE DATE!  Clerical issues over here.  This was published August 2012!  However, the reason I noticed this wasn’t live is because I have a date with Kent tonight.  First time in 5 years.  I have reservations, naturally.]

Yesterday Beautiful Kent came over.  I lolled around in bed for the hour before he arrived trying to rest and get my head in the game.  When he showed up, dark and dashing, I got us some drinks and suggested we just hang out in my room.

Forty-five minutes later he closed the gap and I finished it.  I peeled my clothes off and told him his pants had to go.  He stood tall, all 6’1″ of him, muscular and resplendent, his 9″+ cock jutting high, then fell on top of me.  My hands began to roam when he pinned them over my head and said, “No… I got this.”  So I lay back and relaxed as he nibbled and kissed me and sunk deeper into the mattress.

He felt good, but I was having a hard time focusing.  I was a little nervous about fucking him (last time had been such a mind-fuck).  His cock is the Tickler.  All he has to do is put it in me and it’s g-spot time and it makes me go a little crazy.  But I shook off the thoughts and recommitted to trusting him; he knows what he’s got and he’s not a cruel lover.

I imagined what we must look like, him so dark and me so pale, our limbs intertwined.  My lashes fluttered open periodically, but truthfully, I can’t fuck with my eyes open anymore, especially in the daylight.  It’s my line of defense.  I give my body, but nothing else.

When he entered me I was wet and ready.  He stretched me wide and slid all the way in to the hilt, then he started to move and that’s when I was finally able to let go all the way.  His strength and care allowed me to open as much as I could, suck him in, push him out.  He flipped me, lifted me, pushed and stroked me.

For an hour I suffered through exquisite pleasure, my arms and chest numb and tingling, squirting intermittently, moaning and gasping, begging for it to stop and never stop simultaneously.  He murmured words of encouragement and allowed me breaks when I insisted I was going to die.  “No one ever died from pleasure, you know,” he chuckled.

“I might be the first.  It could happen,” I replied into the sheets.

When he mounted me again, this time I was on all fours.  He put me in his cum position (my feet together with knees splayed) and pushed firmly on my lower back as he began to pump.  He fucked me for minutes like this while I pretended I really had died.  There was some pain mixed with intense pleasure as he pounded my cervix and played with angles.  And when I heard him start to lose control and feel his cock swell I knew my own relief was imminent.

He came hard and fell over me, bracing his upper body over mine.  I could feel sweat drip onto my back.  He rolled to the side and immediately started poking me and I started to cry.  Both from the endorphins and from the fact that he was ready to go again.  But it wasn’t a bad cry, it was my awesome sex laugh-cry thing.

And then something awful happened.  With my face in my mattress, and chest heaving from exertion and pleasure, I thought, “Oh fuck.  Now how am I going to get him out of here??”  He was playfully poking my sides and toes and giggling like a boy.  I was becoming more turned off by the second and irritated and embarrassed at myself for reacting like this.  What have I become?  A man?  An asshole?  A libertine??

Yes.  A libertine.

So instead of kicking him out of bed I managed to say, “I’m a fucking libertine.”  He laughed because he agrees, though he has no idea the thoughts running through my  head.  I let him stay an hour only because I didn’t have the heart to do a hard kick out the door and he wasn’t paying any attention to my cues to leave (another reason I didn’t want to keep fucking him).  But also, the truth is an hour of heavy cervix-pounding leaves me utterly spent.  Perhaps if our personalities clicked better I would rally, but honestly I’m happy to have the hour and then be alone.

I’m so confused.  Ten years ago I would have loved to have a man want to stay and pillow-talk with me.  He’s sweet, kind, gentle, a thoughtful, powerful lover… but I can’t really apologize for there not being a spark.  That’s just not my fault.  I have 4 more dates this week, perhaps I’ll hit it off with one of them and yes, if I feel so inclined, I’m fucking them all.  I have no time to waste dates.  I need to know if it’s worth my time to keep seeing him.

[Epilogue: This was the third and last time I fucked Beautiful Kent.  I just couldn’t get past his timidness and my apathy.]

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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