It has been a long time since I thought about writing this story.
I didn’t want to think about it at all.
Hiding it somewhere in my mind and wouldn’t want to share it with the world around me.
I don’t know why I was hesitating so much, why this made me tremble.
Shook me from the core of my being.
Barely standing my ground, making me lay awake at night.
When I tell you more about it, you might understand.
I felt ashamed about this in general, not so much the sexual experience.
What was lying behind me, perhaps even in the past.
Sleeping in his bed.
It could be it had nothing to do with him, but more about me.
Something we don’t know, including myself.
That sexual identity.
Where I am a sexual being, open to explore.
More than the phase I am going through, if at all that exists.
Sexually open, trying to discover what there is.
At least for me.
I guess the shame is more than this word on paper.
A desire, a fire.
There are many questions which were crossing my mind, perhaps masked as insecurity.
I feel ashamed for doing these things, letting it happen to me.
When I start writing about it, I feel nauseous and want to throw up.
I can’t believe I did all those things.
Letting him touch my skin, kiss my lips, grab my hair when he felt like doing so.
Pushing it back a little and hold me tight.
He would go down with his hands, feel my tits, rub my nipples and caressing them with his tongue.
Sometimes he would stop for a second and look me into my eyes. He would push me against him and grab my hand, it never mattered which one it was. I would rest my head on his shoulder and we would dance until we woke up from wherever we were. I could feel his hips pushing against mine. Moving to the sound which was also there in the room. We would listen to music that felt to me like a symphony.
I can understand why I was so happy to see him and go to his house, every time.
It didn’t matter to me when and what time. I was fine with it all.
This felt so amazing, it was all so wonderful to me.
Many times he took his phone to take a picture for his own recollection. I have to say I also have a few. Not for that sexual intent, but it’s nice to have another perspective of myself, I guess.
By that time I would be half undressed, sometimes.
He would take my hand, walk a bit in front of me, guiding me to the bed. To me it didn’t matter where that was.
Sometimes we didn’t even make it that far.
We were going up in that world, like we never existed.
Time stood still, there were no words, no boundaries, at least for me.
I didn’t have to close my eyes for it.
Where at one point I would open my legs and let his dick enter. Pushing me to all corners of my mind. Hard and fast. Until I would forget about the world and come soft and deep.
I can still feel this warmth, which is more than a memory.
The best part is where he fucked me from behind. Against the mirror, on the couch, with my skirt left up, the strap of my bra half around my arm, my heels on my feet.
Sometimes we would forget the curtains were up from the window, but I would always gently remind him. To keep this world for our own, no spectators allowed, although I am writing about it here.
At a place I find safe.