Lots about Me Ch. 01: Strangers

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So I’m trying to be tidier now! And also very, very carefully not to be advertisey, so I hope this next bit makes sense… So sometimes when I write stuff down in the places where I happen to write things down, they are just made-up stories, and fun, and that’s all they are. And sometimes they’re actually true. And people seem to like that some are, and want to know which are which, so I thought it might be useful to organize the true ones properly and put all the true ones in one place here.

So this is three shorter stories, or memories, or whatever, about having sex with strangers. With different people. So if it isn’t clear, when “you” turns up, “you” is the person I’m with at the time, but not the same person or anything, because “you” is simpler than making up fake names. I hope that makes sense.

Anyways, here you go, and thank you for looking.

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It’s night, in the city somewhere, and I’ve been out with people at a bar. I was in a bar, and right now I’m in an alleyway behind a bar, and there’s a guy I don’t know inside me.

There’s music all around me, different music from different bars all competing with itself, and there’s a lot of people in the street not very far away from me too. So many people I can hear them talking and shouting and laughing quite clearly.

I’m in heels, quite tall heels, and balancing a bit unsteady, but I’m high enough with them on and him slightly bent down that we can fuck standing up.

And we are.

We’re fucking without speaking, without really paying much attention to each other. Just both here, for this, because we need to be, not because we actually like each other especially much or anything.

We’re balanced, but only just, probably because of my heels. Or actually, heel. I’m only standing on one foot. I’m leaning on a wall, so its pressing against my back, and he’s leaning too, kind of pressing on me, pressing me into the wall, and holding one of my legs tightly up against his side, with his hand underneath my knee. I’m holding onto a pipe or a pole or something too, something metal anyway, with one hand, and with my other arm around his neck, pulling myself against him as well as I can, and doing my best to move without falling over.

I’m facing him, kissing him, feeling him hot and hard inside me. Feeling him, and fucking, and thinking about nothing, needing this desperately for no real reason. Needing it enough I’m here, in an alley, and not really caring who comes along or sees us.

I don’t know who he is. Like I actually don’t know, he’s a stranger who hit on me and I just thought I might as well. Most of what I remember about him is that his mouth tastes of something sugary, and I can’t work out what. I’ve been halfway trying since he first tuzla escort kissed me, and I still am now as we fuck. It’s not unpleasant tasting, just some kind of mixer with whatever he’s drinking, but not anything obvious like coke or orange, and I cant work out what. I keep thinking he tastes different to other people I’ve kissed in bars, anyway. Different to rum and vodka and wine and beer. It doesn’t really matter, it’s just slightly distracting as we do.

All I’ve really said to him is does he have a condom when we start, and that he’d better let me come before he does, halfway through. He says he will, but I don’t completely believe him. I’m suspicious, because why would be bother, when he doesn’t know me and will never see me again.

We both doing this for ourselves, basically, just using each other, and that’s good. That’s what I want.

So I look after me. After a bit, I let go of the pipe and press my hand against myself, and get myself off, and he does actually wait until I have, and then he finishes too, and pulls out of me, and then we both just look at each other.

I pull my skirt down, and he takes the condom off and I give him a tissue out my bag and he wraps it up and puts it in his pocket. And then we kind of say thanks, and that was nice, and kiss awkwardly because he seems to think he should, and then we both just go back inside, to our friends, and don’t really bother speaking to each other again.

And I’m glad. I’m really relieved. I hate when people hang around awkwardly at times like that and spoil the beautiful empty meaninglessness of furtive stranger sex.

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I’m kneeling on your bed. I’m naked. We’re both naked. We’ve been fucking for a while, and we’re doing anal.

I know your name, but not much more about you. That seems wrong and sexy, both. That I’m doing this thing, this beautiful intimate terrifying thing with you, and I barely know your name. You’re behind me, inside me, pleasuring me, but I’m barely looking at you. I’ve barely looked at you since we started. I’m looking at the lube, actually, which is beside my hand still. I’m looking at my hand, which is twisted into the sheet, pulling at it, grabbing it.

I get grabby when I feel a lot.

What we’re doing hurts in that not-quite-hurty anal way. It’s intense and deep and sharp and I feel a lot, but it isn’t hurting in a bad way. It’s hurting how hurt is good.

You started slowly, and I had to gasp at you a few times that I was okay and you could fuck me properly. It was nice you bothered, but I needed to be fucked.

And now you’re fucking me.

This isn’t polite anal, like the end of you inside me and hardly anything more. This is deep, sore pleasure, this is shifting my insides around, with you buried in me, filling me and hurting me so I can barely breathe. This is sweat tuzla escort bayan on my back. I get sweaty as well as grabby when I feel a lot. There’s sweat, and I know it’s there because your hands slide when you touch me, and I think it’s from the anal, not from how we were fucking earlier. We fuck. We both move. I move too. I push at you, wanting you, needing to have as much of you inside me as I can. My eyes won’t stay open, because they seem not to when I’m close to coming intensely. My hands are shaking a little. My knees too. I’m filled with you.

I’m filled with you there, in my ass.

I’m kneeling, my face and chest on the bed, pushing backwards, lifting my hips up towards you. My knees are quite close together, too close, really, awkwardly close, just because I ended up that way when you first went inside me and I haven’t moved except to fuck you since. My knees are too close together, so close my other hand barely fits between them.

I’m masturbating. I’m letting you have my ass, and masturbating myself as you do, and all of this is scarily intimate. I’m letting you have me there. I’m letting your risk hurting me. I’m letting you see me doing this, see me enjoying this, which I don’t always want people to know about.

I barely know you, and I’m doing this with you, and that’s oddly sexy. And scary too.

We fuck.

I’m close, I think. I can still think enough to notice, so I whisper that I am, and you need to be quick once I do.

“Yep,” you gasp.

“I mean it,” I say. “I need to stop when I do. Like right after.”

You say okay.

“I almost am,” I say, trying just to say it without it being a big deal. Because saying you’re close can mean omg pressure and don’t you dare finish and time to start counting backwards or something silly, and I don’t mean that. I just mean could you do what you’re doing, and keep doing that, as much as you can, as long as you can, but no big deal if not. Because I can finish myself if I need to. Because I don’t care about masturbating in front of other people. Not like I care about people knowing I like anal sex as intense as this.

“I almost am,” I say, and then I do.

I come, and its rich thick heavy darkness fills me. It fills me, and then it’s gone, and then I’m just a little sore in my ass, getting sorer as you thrust into me.

“Hurry,” I whisper, reminding you, but you must have already realized. You’re already moving faster. You thrust a few more times so I gasp, startled, sore, and then you come too.

You come, and go soft, and start to slide out of me, so I reach back, and grab the condom, in case you aren’t thinking enough to catch it yourself.

You slide out, and I feel relieved and regretful both. Because sex like this is like that sometimes, I suppose, both sad and a relief when it’s finished. You slide out, and then we clean up, and then escort tuzla lie beside each other, which is nice. You hug me, and stroke me gently, even though I don’t know you very well at all.

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I remember my dress, and my shoes, and your cock, but I don’t remember your face or your name. I might not have even known your name. I might not have been listening when you told me.

I’d say I’m sorry, because that seems kind of rude, but I don’t think you actually cared so never mind, I won’t.

We met at a party, I remember that. You’d been watching me for a while before you talked to me, watching me across a group of people, across a circle spread out on chairs and a sofa and the floor. We were both on the floor, and I was sitting with my knees up in front of me, you’d been watching me, and looking up my dress, and I didn’t care because I liked your laugh and voice and that you were looking, that you were just doing it without pretending otherwise. And because I knew you couldn’t see much, because sensible undies, because short dress, and also, because period.

Not that you needed to know that.

You looked up my skirt, and looked at my legs, and laughed when I said funny stuff, which is always good. Later you talked to me on my own, just me, and later still we went home and there was kissing and making out.

So that was all nice, except period, like I said. Because I get a bit weird about period sex. Not the sex itself, because I like it, but weird about how odd other people are about it. Because if they aren’t fine with it, then it’s embarrassing, and because it feels like a rejection of me if someone doesn’t want to, because it’s still me and my pussy they’re saying no to, even if it seems like its blood. So I get weird, and sometimes it’s just easier not to try, rather than bother to find out if someone cares.

Um, which is why it doesn’t get talked about much here, by the by. But I kind of need to for this.

So anyways. Period sex, with someone I don’t know well, I usually don’t bother. It’s easier just to do stuff to them and not explain. So that night, with you, I don’t bother. I just kneel down in the middle of your lounge-room, and sit on the heels of my shoes, and take out your cock, and suck it.

I suck you, and taste you, and press my hand between my legs as I do, and that’s enough for me, really. Like pressing against myself, but outside my undies. So I’m feeling something, and tasting, and sucking like I am.

I suck. And you come. And I taste that too.

I remember that, your semen, and I remember your cock, and I remember the dress because I usually know which ones I can press my hand between my legs easily enough to reach like this, and also because when you come I dribble a bit and some goes down inside my top, and that reminds me later on too.

So I remember all that, but I don’t remember your face or name, and I really can’t decide if that seems bad, or just seems like what happens after a few years have passed.

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