Sometimes I Don't
Sometimes I don’t have to come. Mostly I do. But sometimes a good rough & tumble quickie with a hot bloke is enough.
I’ve been lucky recently. I nailed myself a foreigner; Which ain’t that hard to do in a foreign land, if you can get past the language barrier, or understand the accents over the pounding music in the bar you’ve chosen.
I’d had a dry spell since the start of my travels, and this was exactly what I needed. A young man with a certain knowing twinkle, strength, big hands and a teasing promise walked into view and my cunt quivered in response. I was in pursuit.
It can be intimidating to be so much older than one’s quarry, or to know of that age gap even if the evidence on my body is light and the darkness lends itself to a concealing of what little there is. I had seen him around before in a few other bars, and had even danced with him at one point. Explicitly, with intent, danced with him, hard against him, sweating in the night. But at that point I had not settled into the area for long enough to make any moves to consummate, and he was most likely drunk enough to be unable to perform. After a few weeks of greetings, rubbing up against him here & there, whispered promises, I had a place and the time and the need.
I let him know that I’m only in the area for a few months and I’m not looking for anything more than some good fucking here and there, and his inhibitions tumbled. I could see that with the clarification he was less resistant, he was not seeking a relationship. Within 20 minutes he had dragged me into an unoccupied room with a bed in it and we were kissing and fumbling our clothes off. Not many came off, just the essentials, jeans around the ankles, shorts unzipped, shirts lifted to half mast.
Or bodies slammed into each other needfully, and his cock entering my cunt was satisfying beyond words. I had been wet for weeks thinking of this man, since our first dance, masturbating when I found the privacy, groaning when I came, imagining him inside me. I recalled his broad hands kneading my ass as we danced, large enough to grab one ass cheek in one hand and squeeze tight, holding me against his crotch as I straddled his leg, my thigh length skirt hitched up barely covering me. I thought of his strong hand encircling my breasts until they almost popped out of the Victoria’s Secret bra that held them in my dress clearly on display, squeezing and holding, grabbing what he wanted. It was clear he wanted me, but his kisses, though promising at the time, were sloppy with his drunkenness, and I didn’t want him that bad.
But he’d showed promise. So I lurked in the bars where I figured he’d be until he came back, looking around for other opportunities too. We crossed paths again. He remembered me and apologized for his behaviour the last time. His friends had indicated to him that he may have been offensively aggressive. Maybe to a woman in her twenties with less experience, but to my 41 year old eyes, that kind of confidence and youth was very very sexy. I was not looking for the elaborate mating dance, I was looking for some sexual company while I was in the area before hitting the road again.
So, third time lucky. I knew he’d be at this particular bar, and I went explicitly looking for sex with him. Though, if other men hove into sight and proved more amenable, I’d switch tactics. Indeed, when I walked in, he was there, talking to a petite black-haired bespectacled girl in her twenties. She yearned, they flirted. I did not greet, but my hopes were dashed for any luck that night. So I moved on, had some great conversations, allowed men to buy me water and ginger ale because they had the great need to do so. I danced with a few other men, rubbed against one or two, implied hot promises in the ears of others. Until my quarry was alone again. Immediately I slid away from the man with whom I was talking and moved up on his back, saying hello, touching him in a way that either meant we’d already been intimate, or were headed in that direction imminently.
Blatantly I told him what I wanted. He gazed hard at me in some silence, deciding, then the twinkle and the promise fell on me like his hands on my ass down inside my jeans. He said if I wanted him that badly he should tease me, make me wait for it. I told him I wouldn’t, I’d be on the road soon. He teased me some more, testing me for how dirty I was, how kinky I may be, what kind of games could we play, and where were the limits. We talked, and touched in the corner of that bar, his friends well aware and standing away but watching, almost cheering him on with the intensity of their gazes. They were hungry for his success. I was hungry for mine.
When he finally got me in private our kisses were ferocious and bruising, teeth bared, biting teasing tongues, hands roaming each others bodies. Fingernails dragged across asses and backs. My jeans were soaked with my need long before he found my belt buckle and undid it, unzipping me as I tried to unzip him. He stopped me, taking control. My jeans around my knees, panties still on, he pulled them aside and fingered my wet cunt, stroking me hard, testing the waters before leaning me over and lifting me onto the bed.
There is something immensely sexy about being with a strong man who can without seeming effort manipulate my body into the positions he wants, lifting me, moving me around, controlling the angles and the access. I am lucky many of my partners are strong that way, and I pursue it. There is less need for negotiation of limbs and communication of moves, they just happen.
So he had me on my back and ankles still tied by my jeans, panties still on he bent my legs up and pulled himself through my legs, I was forced to hold him tight in that position as he fingered me, teasing. I tried again to reach for his cock when he unzipped, kneeling there above me, between my legs, but he took both my slim wrists and placed them over my head against the bed, holding them there with one hand. He said I couldn’t have it yet, I didn’t want it enough.
Oh but I did. I called him bad names and told him just how much I wanted it. But first he’d have to have a condom. He reached for one, tore open the packet with his teeth, and placed it on his cock. I saw it for the first time, it was promisingly big, and uncircumcised the way I prefer. He pulled my panties to one side and entered me swiftly with one thrust and I moaned out loud with the sudden pressure inside me. He started to fuck me hard and my hands were scrambling for a handhold on the bed as he thrust deeply inside me, hard, rocking against my cunt, jackhammering hard and large inside me. I had so needed this cock inside me, I was exploding with wetness. We shifted positions effortlessly to the side, where I kicked off my sneakers and jeans, then I was astride him and fucking him hard, whispering dirty thoughts of my past weeks in his ear. He responded in kind and we wound each other up with talk of hot tight cunts and strong hard cocks, and needs unmet. I gloried in this hard fast sex and he met me in kind, marveling at my dirtyness, loving how aggressively I met him and reveled in the fuck. He came.
We sat there, him still hard inside me, me astride him squeezing him with my cunt until he complimented me on my fine PC control. Talking vaguely about things sexual and situational. No long post-coital bonding this, but a satisfied post-collision of bodies comfort.
Then we needed to get dressed and go. I had a last bus to catch and he his friends to face. We strode back into the bar with mention of another encounter, or two or three before I left. My jeans wet, smelling of sex, looking hard-kissed, well-fucked and satisfied I dashed for the last bus to town, joined by the last stragglers from the party.
I didn’t need to come. I will next time.
I had needed a good hard fuck for way too long, and being on the road does not always lend itself to promise, so much as to danger. But it also lends itself to a certain anonymity and freedom from the mores of the local community, even in a small town which whispers.
And I don’t care what they think of me. This was for me.
