An adult stories – When a Mystery Fet Date Goes Right by Zaehre,Zaehre A story from her perspective. Girl meets an online date for the first time and is surprised to discover that he brings her deepest submission to the surface.
Includes fingering, blowjobs, anal plugs, orgasms in public, and just enough roughness.
And so I’m sitting, blandly perusing my phone in an effort to avoid searching the street. In all honesty, I don’t expect to recognise him. He feels too well spoken, too wise for the smiling young man in his photo. I expect ageing and all that comes with it; perhaps the photo is 10 years out of date? I suppose it speaks to how compelling he is, that I’m here in spite of that.
I glance up at the sound of little puppy feet, a little giddy for the welcome distraction, only to find myself snared by a sight my brain can’t process. He’s here, and he’s… gorgeous. Oh my I did not see that coming. My brain short circuits and I find myself staring at the pup to avoid drooling over the man. I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings; I know perfectly well that right now my eyes are far too wide and my cheeks are rosy enough to basically act as beacons. Cool as a cucumber, that’s me.
The problem with being both submissive and shy is moments like this, when the man casually sitting across from me makes me want to both leap across the table to nibble at his bearded throat and also stare at my lap until he tells me what to do. Somehow I manage to do neither, instead trying to look at his face, but I never get there because oh my stars look at those hands… those hands would feel amazing wrapped around my…
He’s speaking! I look up and two things happen: green eyes hit me like a fucking shot, along with a wholly unexpected accent that’s doing obscene things to my special places. Wow I did not see this coming. This man is unreasonable, this sneaky articulate good looking jerk. Because of course we talk about anything and everything, of course he makes incredibly insightful book recommendations to make my librarian heart sigh in pleasure, and of course he doesn’t break eye contact when I spend too long studying the shades of green and brown and gold in his eyes and end up flushed as a tomato.
Ooh my I am in so much trouble.
He invites me to his place, and so begins the great conundrum.
I didn’t dress for sex appeal. At the time, it seemed brilliant – comfy black bra, comfy panties, shorts under my dress to keep from flashing what my friends call my dump truck ass to all of Glasgow. Keep myself in check in case the sparks aren’t there, so I don’t give in to the urge to just scratch the itch if I don’t intend to see him again. And now mister sexy as sin is gently offering to go to his… and I can’t even lie to myself that I will be able to control the need to touch him for long.
But apparently, none of that is as important as the need to bask in that dominant energy that makes me feel so safe, like I can ask for guidance, ask for permission. Be the submissive I try to hide in the clean world. So I say yes.
What follows is a mindfuck to rival any I’ve encountered. A sweet, needy pup who clearly adores his daddy, making my Little side lose her mind (there is nothing sexier than people who are kind to animals). Sultry jazz and dimmed lights, inspiring the most deliciously wicked thoughts. And a quietly confident man, playing piano and offering me creature comforts. This man planned a seduction, and I feel wildly outgunned in my cotton panties and sandals. Perhaps in heels and red lips and lace I could have held my own, but instead I find the contrast only heightening my submissive instincts. He is in control, and we both know it.
We both like it.
Some time later, I am somehow naked in his fully clothed lap, gasping through my second (or third? Fourth?) orgasm as he gently brings me back to earth. I have always been sensitive to any kind of touch, but his skilled fingers need no guidance or moments of searching. His fingers quicken, and a cascade of need hits as my pussy clenches and I tremble in his arms.
Please use me.
Please don’t stop.
Please hurt me.
Please own me.
Please please don’t stop.
His hand fists in my hair, and a warm breath in my ear asks: hair pulling? I can barely form an affirmation, but do my best. A pause as his other hand continues its devious work on my clit, giving me time to say no. I don’t say no.
And then he pulls my head roughly and all thoughts escape me. He tells me to feel his cock, and my hand moves of its own accord to find him. (Later, when my brain returned, I’d relive this moment in awe of how hard, how long, how utterly perfect he felt.) He says cum, and I cum. Hard. (Later, I would be surprised by the fact his quiet demand drew me to instant crescendo. That’s new.). He never stops touching, never stops grounding me as I soar in ecstasy, bringing me back with his mouth, his fingers; that lick of pain on my scalp, the ache of my breasts, the sting of my nipples.
We’re standing, my hands doing their best to feel every inch of him as I breathe his air and his tongue possesses mine. A hand on my throat, a gently rumbled question: choking? I can’t speak, can’t breathe through the need. God yes please please this. I squeak or moan or sigh my consent, and sit in blurry subspace as he waits, reminding me of my safety. This man will ruin me, but he’ll never hurt me beyond what I can take. Oh but then his grip tightens, my vision narrows, and the pressure sends me spiralling straight into my next
‘Don’t cum until I tell you.’
Son of a godsdamn fucking dirty rotten..
It takes every ounce of will to look in his eyes, clench every muscle in my body, and form the words: yes, Sir. I already trust him; he won’t leave me here for too long. And by all the saints, it isn’t long before he tells me to cum. And once again, no sooner than the words leave his mouth, I do.
He turns me, and gives me what I didn’t know I needed: instruction. He says spread, I spread. In retrospect, I’m not sure I’ve ever been properly spanked. Sure, lovers have smacked my ass as they fuck me or in playful swats, but this… this is different. I beg for it. I’ve never begged for it. He tells me to thank him after each. I do, and I mean it. He calls me a good girl, and I’m wet and needy all over again. I’d do anything to keep hearing those words.
When all of my cheeks are blazing and I have to stop myself from begging for more, my mind clears enough to know: my body will remember him tomorrow, and I can barely wait for the sweet need it will bring.
He is definitely getting a second date.