One Night Stand Erotica
"Patience and Gratitude" a sex story by Olivia London
I was young of course, living in the world’s most beautiful city and it was more than I could bear. I had the kind of job where you can never receive closure, the kind of employment that gives you nightmares years after leaving its asbestos laced building. I worked in a law firm and I wanted out.
I was given that out by a friend in Seattle offering me a month’s free rent while I regrouped and thought of valiant ways to make myself useful to society.
But first, I wanted to have the kind of carnal experience that in my naiveté seemed only accessible in San Francisco. I wanted to pick a man up at a bar and have him fuck me with abandon before I moved on to a city of staid expectations and overpriced lattes.
Having made the mistake of giving three weeks notice, instead of two, my employers were determined to ride me to the bitter end. My work load doubled and I was forced to train my replacement. There was no point asking why the office manager didn’t usher in the new hire as I learned not to question why a woman with a drinking problem ran the show in the first place.
Toward the end of my second week of job termination hell, my bags were packed and my plane ticket sat like a talisman on my nightstand. After a particularly rough day, I decided to prowl for what I needed more than anything in the world. If I didn’t find what I craved, I’d go home to masturbate and cry in my pillow.
The Full Pint was an Irish pub on Haight Street and I’d been in there with friends many times. Not a crass pick-up joint even on weekends but there was always a lad or two deep in his cups and I was determined to find one to take home if it meant dropping coasters like bread crumbs all the way back to my apartment in North Beach.
The bar was populated with regulars and old timers. I headed toward one of the two pinball machines in the back. Pinball had long been a weakness of mine; a night’s tally could beckon more quarters than a year of laundromat duty.
I was hunkered down into my third play when a man’s carnal cologne threw me off my game. I looked up and saw Just My Type.
“You’re gonna upend that thing in a minute, love.”
The black-haired charmer was taller than me by a few pints so I looked up with an expression I hoped exuded sex appeal along with forbearance for being interrupted.
“I have a tumulus of tension to work through,” I said, instantly hating myself for making literary alliterations in a bar. But then, I was in an Irish bar.
“My name’s Eamon, love. What’s yours?”
“Meg. Did you come here alone?”
In answer to my question, Eamon gentled my elbow and led me to a seat at the bar. He took the seat next to mine and we got to talking, amiable banter which was mostly subterfuge for what at least one of us wanted to say. Did you bring protection? In bed, are you a giver or a taker?
He was so handsome, it was all I could do not to straddle this Hibernian honey’s lap and devour him on the spot. He kept touching my arm and back while I squeezed his thigh muscles with ever increasing amounts of pressure. Letting my palm inch dangerously toward his groin, I leaned into his fleece jacket and murmured in his ear, “Eamon, I haven’t had sex in a year and a half.”
That was all that my drinking companion needed to hear. He grabbed my hand and raced me to the nearest taxi. We made out in the backseat, heedless of our scowling mustachioed driver and I could already feel how good it was going to be as I gingerly cupped the erection of my quarry. Or was I Eamon’s conquest for the evening? It didn’t matter; in the morning there’d just be coffee and toast, no keeping score.
In the foyer of my building, we kissed and ladled ourselves over each other until it was my turn to grab Eamon by the hand and race him upstairs. That’s when he suddenly went shy.
He took my face in his sweet man’s hands and said, “Meg, I don’t want to lie to you. I fly back to Boston in a few days. I’m not sure when I’ll see you again.”
“Don’t you like me, Eamon?”
“I do! I just wish I could get to know you. And I’d like for you to get to know me.”
Eamon. What was his last name? McSomething. The title page of our story would be the last page, too: Someday I’ll Remember What a Great Lay You Were, Thank you!
I held his chin and felt the torus of every pint of Guinness I’ve ever downed. I looked in his eyes and saw all the altar boys I pined for in junior high, the ones who grew up to marry flaxen-haired beauties from good homes. As the daughter of marginally employed addicts, I harbored no illusions over marital prospects. Really, I just wanted to get laid.
“Eamon, we just met but I know I want you. Right now my body feels like it’s all locked up and the key holder is tantalizingly close. I want you so bad and I’m dying to go down on you.”
He laughed good-naturedly and before he could demur again I had his trousers unzipped and his cock in my hand. I caressed his erection while he removed his jacket and shirt.
He moaned in approval as I stroked the length of his cock passing it back and forth, a potter at her wheel. We fell on the sofa together and he gasped as I first pressed my lips to the tip of his penis. I could feel how wet I was getting already as the gravitas of a gorgeous cock mounted against my palette turned me on even more than being penetrated vaginally.
I used my tongue like a rotor wrapping his magnificent hard-on with whorls and swirls until I was ready to take the plunge and bring this dear man to the very brink of my desire. My lips sauntered up and down his sweet tasting penis like signorinas on a paseo. As I sucked him down my throat with long, languid pulls, enjoying a pleasant head rush through the prism of hypnotic rhythm, I heard?as if from another room, another life altogether?a voice calling my name and shouting Oh, God! Baby, please don’t stop.
Not wanting to stop but ready for a change of scenery, I suggested we’d be happier in my bedroom where a queen-sized mattress firmer than a trampoline had for too long been wasted on its celibate owner.
I was not the kind of young woman who decorated with flounces and furbelows. I don’t remember ever owning a stuffed animal save a completely malleable teddy bear I simply referred to as Bear. Even as my partner stroked his cock in anticipation, I could tell Eamon was taking in the stark environs, wondering what to make of it.
“I just moved in,” I lied.
“I was just checking out your books. I really do wish I could get to know you better. You’re such a giving person.”
“And there’s so much more to give! Would you mind indulging one of my fantasies?”
Eamon lifted his hands in surrender. “You’re in control, love.”
Control wasn’t something I relinquished readily, but I wondered how it would be to seek nothing but priapic truth in the dark. I pulled a silk scarf from the top drawer of my dresser and asked Eamon to cover my eyes with it. When he did, an immediate surge of moisture dotted my inner thighs.
I felt Eamon’s hands cup my breasts and belly before securing my hips and torquing my torso into a fuckable position.
“Is this what you want, Meg? You want me inside you?” His breath was like a hot brick against my ear and even with a mullioned window cracked for air, I knew we’d soon work up a sweat. Yes, I wanted him inside me, but first I wanted to sup greedily on what I knew I’d miss again for a long while.
My hands found his cock and I said, “Help me go down on you, again.”
“Ah, Meg.”
I sensed his supine form stretch athwart my coverlet and I found a way to land like a parachute over my coveted target.
Don't Move by Dan Houston
The scarf was tickling my back but I ignored it as I focused on filling my throat with Eamon’s delicious phallus. It was as if I was on some magical carousel and the only way to make the ride move was by using my mouth for optimal leverage, my tongue providing the only centripetal force keeping us from falling off the stage.
The languet of my lust was so determined to provide maximum pleasure it could have opened a sealed envelope. My loins were slick now with the heat of my quim, but I went on, pushing further and further into the momentum until I was so giddy from giving head I might have been swinging from a roof beam hanging on to Eamon’s phallus for dear life.
Two hands grabbed me at the waist and now I was the one on my back, my mouth already forlorn deprived of its favorite candy.
I heard a ripping sound like aluminum foil torn to cosset a baked potato then realized Eamon was putting on a condom. I smiled at his thoughtfulness.
“You’ll drive a man mad, you will.”
The tip of his penis blithely greeted my inner thigh but he didn’t enter me immediately, gently swatting my hands away from his sheathed goodness. There was no point whinging about it as he pinned my wrists down and covered my mouth with his. His kisses were adamant and full but it was the tender sweep of his lips across my cheeks and neck that made me almost weep with gratitude.
He raked my auburn tresses with his callused fingers?he told me he worked construction every summer?and finally he pulled up the scarf and arranged it like a babushka over my torrent of hapless curls.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, and while I wasn’t sure if he meant it, I have yet to meet a woman who balks at compliments, especially in the throes of passion.
He kissed me some more and I lifted my pelvis knowing I was displaying wanton need and knowing well enough some men disapproved of this, but I needed that cock inside me like I needed the world to never end, needed desperately Eamon’s cruciform muscles hovering over my chest as he pushed his way past every obstacle that’s ever been placed between a man and a woman, at least long enough for us to have an unparalleled moment of intimacy.
“Oh, okay,” he said, as he noticed I winced in an amalgam of pain and pleasure. “I’ll go slow. I don’t want to hurt you.”
But it did hurt and I was reminded yet again why I prefer fellatio to intercourse but eventually it began to hurt in a way that was smooth and effortless, like a swimmer who loses purchase on a diving board knowing this will be the true dive and no more belly flops.
Eamon looked into my eyes pinning me with his gaze as if to remind me he was a full-fleshed human male, not the sum of his parts, or at least not just the part I spent so much time lavishing with my tongue’s embrace.
A trickle of sweat coiled at the nape of my neck as Eamon’s economical thrusts gave way to full-throttle fucking. I hooked my heels around his hips and clasped the hardpan muscles of his back.
“Take me to another place,” I begged, and with that he fucked me as hard as he dared which was at least forceful enough to send my babushka flying.
“More,” I cried. “Give me more. I want all of you.”
“Ah, Meg.”
A gent as well as a generous lover, Eamon gave me exactly what I wanted, the sharp slip-slap of our groins overpowering all the night sounds of the city.
We came together in a flood of carnal fruition, rocking each other with the ease of sated desire. What I would give to have a boyfriend like Eamon I thought, knowing I’d be useless at work the next day as I played the tape of this encounter over and over again plucking every kind word like berries from a vine, savoring the fluid tones of his Brahmin accent.
Eamon suggested we take a shower, but first he took the time to make my bed. My sheets were tangled in a Celtic knot of post-coital bliss and I liked them that way, but once again I marveled at my partner’s considerate nature.
I went down on him again in the shower, the combination of water pulsing down my head and back while my tongue trammeled the length of Eamon’s shaft was the best unction any lust supplicant could wish for.
After daubing my body with a towel, Eamon led me back to the bedroom and said, “You have to let me go down on you, now. You don’t have to give so much.”
But I wanted this night to be about sex and over-the-top rutting so I couldn’t have Eamon’s oral ministrations, no, that would be giving too much to a stranger. If he really wanted to get me off, I said, he could finger me. If he thought he had the patience for such a thing; it was a simple act but one that affords a chronic masturbator like myself a world of pleasure.
I was afraid he wouldn’t have the patience. Some guys go about fingering a woman as if they’re trying to de-pip an orange, but of course Eamon wasn’t like that. He took the edge of my clit between his thumb and forefinger and pinched ever so poignantly, like an Egyptian tourist at market fondling the softest of silks.
“You like that, love?”
“Mmm,” was all I could say as I curved into his warm embrace.
He was kissing me while he was doing this which of course made me wetter and hungrier for his touch. He commandeered his finger pads to press and push in all the right places until I couldn’t take it anymore. When I grabbed Eamon’s bicep he intuited what to do next and pushed one, then two digits inside me.
“More?”
“No, that’s perfect. Fuck me just like that.”
He tilted my head back and plunged his fingers to the hilt, using his thumb to brush my clit.
I was cresting toward an orgasm, though not exactly close when he said, “I’m hard again, if you want something a little more substantial.”
His cock sheathed once more, Eamon tried his best to finger my clit while he was fucking me and when he came it was as if our bodies melded into one conduit of desire.
In the morning he bought me breakfast and in the afternoon there were flowers sent to my work. Funny, I hadn’t even recalled telling him where I worked. There was a note along with his phone number in Boston, which I never called. Long distance relationships demand more energy than I can muster and I was anxious to start anew in Seattle.
In Seattle, I found more satisfying employment working at a nonprofit organization. I have yet to find a man who can satisfy me the way Eamon did. If only for one night.
Copyright August 22, 2011
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.