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It seemed like such a good idea at the time. ‘Date fifteen gorgeous guys in two hours’ the ad said but now that the reality is in front of me, I feel a bit ripped off. Clearly the ‘gorgeous guys’ had the night off and in their place were a bunch of pretty ordinary looking middle aged blokes. We stand in small groups chatting while waiting for the event to start. The complimentary champagne is a blessing as I listen to one of the blokes drone on about property prices. I wonder if it is too late to leave.
A laugh catches my attention and I look past the property bore to see a man with a group of ladies. He’s not much to look at, only slightly taller than myself and reasonably built. However he has a certain confident manner to him that has the ladies enthralled. I keep half an eye on his group while the bore continues.
He seems quite charming. Every so often a new lady joins his group and comes under his spell. Blokes join the group as well, but don’t stay long. He catches me looking; I quickly look away. Looking back, he catches my eye again, giving me the slightest of smiles. It is a knowing smile. A look that says only one thing – it’s on.
The host rings a bell and explains the evening’s event. The ladies are to each take one of the seats situated around the room and the blokes are to move around and talk to us in turn, each ‘date’ lasting about six minutes, with a fifteen minute break in the middle. I take a seat and he gives me a cheeky glance as he sits with a lady further along. But wait – they are moving counter-clockwise – I won’t be meeting him until near the end of the evening. My disappointment is interrupted by my first date.
His questions are more like a job interview than a date: What do you do? Where do you live? Do you come to these events often? The host rings the bell to move on and he is instantly forgotten.
The next date is no better. The bell rings again.
Date number three looks like the football he claims to love so much. A little rotund man with pink skin and a balding head. I tell him the game does nothing for me.
‘But it is such a beautiful sport. The skill, the excitement. You just haven’t been with the right crowd. Let me take you and show you what you are missing.’
He has finally moved around the room to be on the side opposite. Even though he has his back to me we exchange sly glances as he moves around. I roll my eyes and he gives me a cheeky grin. I like this game.
The host announces a fifteen minute break. I need to freshen up. Getting up, I head for the ladies. My man is in front of me. Our eyes lock. In a spur of the moment act of madness I tilt my head signalling him to follow. In reply he gives the slightest of nods. The sound of footsteps follows the clack of my heels on the tiles. I stop at the door and look back. It’s him.
Reaching up to meet his lips, we kiss; he tastes of stale red wine. Pinning me against a wall, my skirt is hoisted to my waist; a hand thrusts into my knickers. The other hand is in my blouse, fondling a breast. I pull him closer with one hand while the other undoes his fly to release his cock. I stroke it while he fingers my clit. This won’t take long.
The finger on my clit seems to be somewhere deep inside of me, like it is rubbing my very soul. I push my pelvis hard against him. His cock is hard in my hand. My breathing quickens; and so does his pace.
He gently holds me while I get my breath back, but his cock is impatient with its own need. Kneeling, I look into his eyes and lick from his balls to the tip of his cock. The tip of my tongue traces an outline around the head. I would have liked to linger but time, and my knees on the cold tiles, have other plans. I take his cock in my mouth; sucking while my tongue plays with its head; my hand pumps the shaft. He moans.
I stand. He holds me in a tight embrace and our mouths meet in a kiss. It ends too soon. Arranging his clothes, he is gone.
Alone, I clean myself up. The woman in the mirror looks shattered; it is not me; I feel wanton, wicked, and licentious. I taste and smell of him.
The bell rings to start the second half of the evening. My next date stares at me, annoyed that I have kept him waiting. The bell rings some more. He sits. We introduce ourselves.
© Paul Shipley 2013
Paul Shipley is a self proclaimed IT geek, technical writer and blogger, who is now trying fiction for his own amusement – and hopefully the enjoyment of others. Paul’s blog is Secret Diary of a Geek.
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