I complain that we don’t “date” enough. Dinner dates, coffee dates, breakfast dates – there simply aren’t enough to satisfy me. Our dates represent time together, just the two of us, drinking each other in, basking in the other’s presence.
He always seems to listen even when I think he isn’t paying attention.
Of course, there’s one type of date I never think about until it and he are on top of me. The early morning press of two warm bodies, grinding against each other. Those are the best dates. I know it qualifies because I’m definitely drinking him in, basking in his presence.
He gave me little choice. His hands were insistent, fingers pressing and prodding in secret, warm places. His hips pushed against my own, cock stiff and persistent.
His feather light touch undoes me more than any firm, bold, cruel caress ever could. The small, short strokes in sensitive crevices. The gentle pressure against my slit, slowly opening under his attention – a flower blooming in the dark.
That he can still surprise me is worthy of the early-morning adventure. One, two, three small shuddery orgasms, my body folding in on itself as pleasure washed through me. My satisfaction so often leads to his own. I thought I knew the next step in our pre-dawn dance.
He rolled over, away from me. What?
He rummaged through the nightstand. Surely he doesn’t think we need lube?
He got out of bed. What is he doing?
I curled on my side, snuggled into the warm spot he’d left behind, waiting. Waiting is best in these situations. He clearly had a plan. Patience, babygirl, patience.
He found what he was looking for. The bed dipped as he returned. It shimmied as he maneuvered whatever he had. I looked over. He’d brought a toy – his favorite, the Pulse – to this date. Oh, a threesome is it?
Was I going to watch him masturbate? Was he going to bring me to orgasm with just his hands? No cock?! Wait, would I get a toy?
“Get up here, girl.”
In the dark, it was difficult to see his meaning, until he tapped the top of the toy. Ohhhhh. Ride ’em, cowgirl.
Intrigued but feeling a little silly – I always do when I climb on top – I quickly complied. This would be good for both of us, I was sure.
Because I straddled him, my body was open wide. It pressed against the cool, firm toy. He hit a button. I jumped and yelped, then relaxed, sinking down against his warm chest. Deep vibrations hummed through my body. My hips began to grind against his.
He hit another button. Stronger vibrations pulsed through my body. Oh fuuuuuuck.
I squeaked through orgasm after orgasm. They rolled through my body with a gentle insistence. When I would lift my hips in relief, he held me in place, forcing me to take the warm, loving torture he demanded. Burying my face in the pillow, I gave way to the unceasing waves pounding against and through my body.
I screamed my pleasure into his chest. My nails dug into his flesh. My hips rocked back and forth. His own gasps of pleasure washed over me. He wasn’t immune to this insistent bliss, either.
Finally, I cried out, “No! No more! I can’t. I can’t. Ican’tican’tican’t.”
Pushing me away, he set the Pulse to the side, barely remembering to turn it off, before burying his cock deep into my quivering, soaked, used cunt.
In the back of my orgasm-soaked brain, I thought, “This is definitely better than a dinner date.”
Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! This week’s prompt was about writing a dating profile. Since I have no interest in ever doing such a thing (and didn’t before I met John Brownstone), I went in another direction. Special shout-out to Hot Octopuss for making such a fucking amazing toy that he loves so much. True story – he used it until the batteries wound down while I was in London, then charged it back up, and used it some more.