True Sex Stories: Orientation

Need to get through a long, boring meeting? Take a tip from Leah, and find some, ahem, amusement online.

I had a mandatory and completely useless orientation today. I sat in the back row of the auditorium with the laptop dangerously perched on the foldout desk. It was too distracting to read a paper or write with someone talking at me from the front of the room. Starting from the highlights at Fleshbot, I surfed the sex blogs to amuse myself.

A spray of semen against the asshole of a multiorgasmic woman made me wish that sex without condoms happened more frequently in my life. I longed to be fucked in the shower by more fingers than there are on one hand or seduced in the office by a professor, which is a recurring fantasy of mine. The touch of fingers strayed to the seam of my jeans. Reassured that being a slut is ok, I read about Emily's sexy family. My fingers rubbed harder now.

The row of seats immediately in front had four people grouped before me. My row had six or seven in total. I was quiet about masturbating. From my position at the end of the row and in the corner of the room, only the guy three seats away could see the hand moving between my legs as I scrolled down the web page. Jaw hanging open, he stared at me in disbelief. Meeting his look, I shrugged my shoulders and went on with the business.

An hour and a half into the session, the girl sitting in front passed me the attendance sheet. I signed beside my printed name and handed it along. I noticed the guy scrutinizing the paper, trying to figure out who I was before he signed himself present and sent it over to the next man.

We adjourned for coffee soon after. During the break, I felt his eyes on me from behind. Having signed the sheet, I had no intention of staying for the second half of the morning session.

I am an opportunist. I am shameless. I walked over to him. "I am horny. I could use a fuck. Do you want to get out of here?"

He answered in accented English. The voice had a singsong quality.

His name is Oscar. He is from Stockholm. He fucked me in the basement under the stairs meters below the side exit to the building, which we heard open and close. I slipped off my shoes and out of one of my pant legs. He stood with his jeans pooled at his feet and his boxers about his ankles. Flattening myself against the wall, I raised my thigh against his body, and he held it against his hip. The panties were shifted to one side so that his penis could enter me. He hunched his knees and angled his cock at me from below. The penetration brought me to my toes. The painted brick was unforgiving on my back. I felt its solidity across my shoulders and ass when he speared my vagina. I lifted my arms high above my head. He twigged what I was after and clasped them by the wrists with the hand that wasn't supporting my leg. I liked the sensation of being taken by someone I had just met, of having my cunt pounded by a man who didn't know my name, of doing it in the open with the risk of discovery heightening my arousal. Hungry kisses stifled my moans.

Sadly, the last paragraph is a fancy. It could have happened had the man been slightly braver, been named Oscar, and come from Sweden. Instead, I found a toilet and frigged myself. The climax is an anticlimax.

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