The Writing on the Wall

erotica ebooks by Ida J

We meet on Tinder. I almost don’t show up to meet him, I change my mind at the last minute. It’s high summer, I’ve been eating watermelon at Alexander’s house all day. I have already been on one unsuccessful date today. The guy is an American student travelling. He suggests the organic food shop as a meeting place. Unorthodox, but I’m willing to go for it. He’s good looking but goofy, examining bottles of kefir for their protein content. When we get back to his rented flat, his friend is there, an economist who works at a bank. They’re in their mid-twenties and clearly not short on funds. They are so far removed from my world that I’m not sure what to make of them. The goofy man wants to have breakfast and get blazed. There’s no way. I leave and head back to Alexander’s. I think it’s probably futile to even bother meeting Henk, it’ll probably be yet more disappointment. Fucking dating apps. Yet something makes me change my mind at the last minute.

I head out to meet him, wearing a short spaghetti strap black shift and high heeled sandals. Armed with bleached hair, sunglasses, tattoos and twenty Euros for drinks. I’m too broke to have a functioning phone and don’t know where the bar is, he says let’s meet on the bridge nearby. “I’m two metres tall with sunglasses”. And so he is, leaning against the railing. Two metres tall, skinny jeans, sunglasses, beer in hand. Strawberry blonde hair shaved at the back and sides, longer on top. He’s a peacock, performatively wild and very obviously a fuckboy. Just my type.

His face is handsome, in a boyish way. He is nuts, in a compelling way. We wander down to the waterside bar, the one in the disused car park. It’s packed, we get whisky and sit on a bench overlooking the water. We click instantly, the chemistry is breath-taking. He is extremely vivacious, we talk about philosophy, jumping from subject to subject. What we have in common is a desire to be free, misguided attempts to remove ourselves from social constraints.

We talk about our exes, we’re both recently single. I should know from how he dumped his that he’s trouble. He arranged for her to catch him cheating, he says. He usually only cheated when she was away. She’s a model, he shows me pictures. She’s gorgeous, willowy and blue-eyed, with long blonde hair, classically beautiful. They were at school together, childhood sweethearts.

He’s technically studying philosophy at the university, who knows how much actual studying he does though. Probably about as much as I do, my studying has stalled for the summer and I’m only in it for the party at the moment. My own personal renaissance break up crisis, the long bloody labour to birth the person I had prevented myself from becoming in my twenties by means of a bad relationship. We talk about freedom, I can feel myself being the feisty, idealistic version of me. I think he likes it, the way he looks at me is so intense, as though he’s seeing his own reflection for the first time.

It’s less than twenty minutes before we’re making out on the bench, grabbing each other with overwhelming desire, twisting our limbs together, fingers digging into flesh. Ten minutes more and we’re in a taxi back to the friend’s place where he’s staying in the wake of his breakup.

We open red wine in his friend’s living room, undressing. His long body is straight up and down like a ruler, large but lanky. Playfully we kiss, pulling towards each other and away, diving into the sofa, standing again, eyeing each other’s naked bodies. His cock is large and weighty, uncircumcised, it looks hard even when it’s only halfway there.

We have no condoms, how ridiculous that I didn’t bring any, I really should have known better, especially given how much I’ve been fucking around of late. I could easily have borrowed some off Alexander. At first he’s hesitant to have sex. He asks me, “do you have HIV?” 

“No. Or at least I’m pretty sure I don’t. I got tested recently.” 

“The last girl I slept with after I last tested was pretty young, early twenties. I’m pretty sure she didn’t give me anything.” I want to fuck but he holds off, teasing, we writhe against each other naked on the sofa, tongues all over.

He tells me I must hear a poem (what was it again? I forget). Scrabbling for his phone, he plays a reading (a gravelly male voice, American. I have no clear recollection what the poem was about, only that it was deep and wistful). I sprawl on the sofa, naked but for my heels as he kisses me, moving over my whole body with his lips and hands. I’m half amused, slightly baffled at the scene, yet taken with the romance of it. He is a person of great intensity, but simultaneously playful to an almost childlike degree. His warm hands trace the lines and curves of my body as I submit to his poetry, eyes closed, touches like whispers against the backdrop of the reading. I can hear the stroke of his skin over mine, blending with the voice. He dips exploratory fingers inside me, licks my nipples, my neck.

Finally, he crawls between my legs, covering my body with his, rubbing his hard cock against my cunt, which pulsates with desire. Finally, he gives me what I want. Slowly, he pushes his big cock inside me, stretching my pussy. It’s heavenly, I’m wet, ready to be fucked after all this waiting, all this tension. We fuck slowly on the sofa, I am torturously close to orgasm for a long time, twisting on his penis. Breathless. Hands clasping feverishly at each other, my fingers on his neck, slick with sweat.

The window is open and sounds of the neighbourhood at night drift in, reminding us that there is a world out there.

Back in the flat and naked again, the door is ajar as I pee, he swaggers in, drops dramatically to the floor and licks the last drops, proceeding to eat my cunt while I sit on the toilet, limbs at odd angles to keep my balance. His large hands on the inside of my thighs as he slurps at my clit, forcing his tongue inside me a little. Then one large arm envelops my leg, my back, holding me up as I gyrate forward onto his face. I’m inclined to think he’s been reading Bataille, so luxuriantly does he revel in obscenity. “Next time, leave the door open.”

On the sofa again, he sits slouched as I perch over him, legs either side as I ride his turgid cock, his hands holding my arse, squeezing and guiding my movements as I bring my hips up and back, forward in swinging motion. We both watch between our legs, fascinated, then look up at each other, to lock eyes. We are playful co-conspirators doing something we shouldn’t be doing. And this is the feeling we’re both seeking, transgression.

We decide to go to a nearb…

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