Georgia Boy

London basks in the unexpected warmth of the sun in April. The bruises on my rump made me decide Thursday on a loose fitting dress that reached to my ankles.

I spent most of the day on my feet. As I didn't wear panties, I was aware of the air circulating between my legs when I walked. I ate lunch outside in the company of colleagues, graduate students and faculty, and was conscious also of the weight on my buttocks when I sat cross legged on the grass. Because I squirmed so much, I eventually stretched out on my side.

At night, a pulse of sustained horniness throbbed through my cunt.

I called Frank. He was in Oxford and would return to the city on the weekend following this one. We arranged a dinner date.

I cycled through the names and e-mails of previous lovers and wondered which of them would understand an ad hoc booty call with another man's markings from the night before still visible over my body. I thought of the clarinetist, who I have been meaning to hook up with a second time. I thought of Daniel, the flautist, who I have been with thrice. I rejected both of them as being uncertain prospects. After our meetings, Dr. Williams sends me e-mails urging a new assignation. He writes nearly every week. A dom who pleads and begs attracts me not at all. I liked the dog man quite a bit, but none of the recent hookups from Craigslist appealed enough to inspire an instant sequel.

The roommate was with her fiancé, so I knew I had the apartment to myself for the evening. I went to a pub half a mile away, conveniently located next to a youth hostel. I picked up a boy from Atlanta, who was in London on spring break, and brought him back to my flat. We sat on the sofa, half emptied bottles of beer on the coffee table, and made out. He reached a hand up my dress, where he discovered my naked wet pussy. I told him to take off his clothes and dispatched my own.

"I keep busy," I said, when he noticed the discoloration on my tits and the bite mark on the lower surface of my right breast.

He nodded.

"We will fuck once, and then you will go." I didn't want post-coital company.

His fingers touched over my chest. "Do you have any lingerie?" he asked.

It was an unexpected suggestion, but one to which I acceeded. I returned from my bedroom in a black slip that was transparent over my breasts and ended three inches below my cunt in pleated tulle.

I nestled beside him on the sofa and hooked the leg nearer to him between his two. He fucked my pussy with two fingers and rubbed my clit in great circles while I swallowed his tongue and his saliva. My hand stroked the length of the erection, which had a tendency to lift vertically against his groin.

I took a condom from my bag and rolled it over the penis. Bringing my legs to either side of his, I pointed the glans to the opening of my cunt and stretched myself over him.

"Fuck me," I directed.

While he held me by the waist and raised and lowered his hips, I ran my fingers through the fuzz of hair on his chest. Sinking my head down, I latched my lips to one of his nipples and suckled. The boy clenched his hands over the faces of my thighs, and he shoved off them with his arms and performed a pelvic thrust that rocked his penis inside me. I clamped down. Reaching behind my body, I gripped his balls and massaged them.

The boy's arms wrapped my back and pulled me against him. He tugged the strap of the slip down one shoulder and lipped across to my neck. His fingers brushed through my hair. I pressed my mouth over his.

The boy laid me horizontal on the sofa. I rotated so that my body slumped into the cushions, and I lifted my legs so they rested against his arms and invited him to occupy the space in between them. The cock bulldozed into my pussy. I braced my feet against his shoulders for a moment, but most of the time, they hung in the air and kicked at the ceiling.

He didn't last long, that Georgia boy in my cunt. After he had finished spurting into the condom, I laid back against the throw pillow and masturbated myself to an orgasm.

Once we finished our beers, he dressed and left me.

Republished with permission from Leah Lays London. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.