Love the one you’re with…

3 min read

Cologne, gasoline, soap and sweat. His taste on my tongue. Grit grinding into my knees through the holes in my ripped jeans. His fingers in my hair, pressing the back of my head as he pushes his cock deeper into my mouth.

No thoughts; just pure sensation…

A close, cherished lover is seriously unwell, and I don’t want consolation from any of my regular fuckbuddies, male or female. He’s irreplaceable, and their well-meaning attempts to comfort me are just an irritant. What I need is the distraction of anonymous sex with a total stranger.

So here I am, on my knees in a underground parking lot, possibly shielded from the security cameras by his car, although I can’t be sure of that. This is a little slutty even for me, but the swell of his thick cock in my mouth is like anaesthesia, blocking out conscious thought, filling me with a strange euphoria. It’s the only drug I need.

I met this guy, whose name I’ve already forgotten, in the historical fiction section* of the huge bookstore near Piccadilly Circus. By the time I’d paid for my books he’d already invited me for coffee; before I took the first sip, I already knew I was going to fuck him. Walking through Chinatown, his hand kept brushing mine, like he wanted to hold it but wasn’t sure if I’d pull away.

I don’t know if he was planning to take me somewhere, under the impression we were on an actual date, but as he stood there on the lowest level of the parking lot, fishing in his pocket for his car keys, I kissed him roughly, backing him up against the grimy wall, hands already sliding down over his chest to his crotch. He was hard in an instant, cock twitching eagerly as I ground my hand over it, feeling it swelling under the worn denim.

I unzipped his jeans and slid my hand inside, eliciting a horny groan as I circled my fingers around his dick and started stroking. It was hardly the time or place for foreplay so I slid to the ground, taking his jeans down as I went. His cock was just what I needed to see, not especially long but thick, with a distinctive curve to the left. I’ll remember that curved cock long after I’ve forgotten your face, I thought, leaning in to take the head between my lips, making him gasp and groan again. Yes, this is just what I need…

Thumbs digging into the hollows of his hips to hold him steady, I lick up and down, around and around, lapping and flicking, calibrating his reactions to each touch. I soon discover a particular stroke over the slick head will make him shudder with pleasure, a firm swipe of my tongue over the pulsing vein that runs the length of his shaft will make him gasp and try to rock forward, seeking my mouth. By the time I slide my lips down around his shaft, sucking a little harder with each inch I swallow, he’s given himself over to me completely.

I’m immersed in his sexual presence, not the slightest bit distracted by distant noises of footsteps, car doors slamming, engines starting up. He holds steady and I fuck him with my mouth, lips sucking, tongue swirling, one hand sliding down to caress his balls. Deeper, deeper I take it, until I feel the head of his cock nudge the back of my throat, like a trigger that switches off my cerebrum and gives the pleasure center of my brain free rein. Drenched with saliva, seeping pre-cum, he slides easily in and out of my mouth.

I’m so perfectly attuned to his breathing, every minute sound and movement he makes; it’s as if I can feel his orgasm building like a pressure cooker. I tighten the grip of my lips, urging him on, until with a yell that echoes around the parking lot he erupts like a geyser. I gulp down mouthful after mouthful of his cum, swallowing fast, sucking until he’s done, licking up every drop.

I’m as sated as if I’ve actually been fucked, wetness pooling in the crotch of my panties, his flavor flooding my tastebuds, images of what we just did flashing through my mind like a slideshow as I stand and dust grit off my knees.

He smiles, a little shy and awkward now. He’s sweet.

“Would you like a drink? I’ve got some water in the car,” he says, turning to unlock the door. As he reaches in to the driver’s side, I step behind a pillar and spirit myself away, slipping into the stairwell and racing up the stairs to street level.

I know the mental slideshow he’s just gifted me will sustain me through the next few days of uncertainty, and a few nights of feverish masturbation too.

*Yup, I love a good historical potboiler. Don’t judge me.

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More confessions from me here — if you think you can handle it! Maybe have a cold shower first…

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