True Sex Stories: Cloudy Day Spontaneity

Jack's rhythmic pounding below forced my mouth against Andre's cock, and the combined massage of pussy and throat both excited and soothed me.

Cloudy Day Spontaneity (Casual Encounters w4m)

It's kind of gray and cold out there today.  How about a tumble with a willing woman?  I'm smart and attractive, and looking for something to cheer me up on a gray day. 

The clouds of depression have dogged me since my teens, and a move from snowy New England to mild San Francisco hadn't done anything to stave them off that winter.  I'd done my best to cheer myself up with breakfast and a couple of bong hits with my friend Cal, who I used to work with and who lived around the corner.  A sweet boy of 24, he was sympathetic to my situation, but pretty clueless when it came to knowing how to deal with me when I was this down.  It was about 1 pm when I left his place and trudged back to my own.  It was a Monday, and I wasn't working.    

Returning to my desk overlooking busy Valencia Street, I glanced at the dive bar across the street.  Standing out front was an energetic blond.  Pacing and prancing, he held a cigarette cupped in his hand against the pervasive mist of the day.  His hair gelled into a modest Mohawk of sorts, he and a companion seemed full of happy energy and sound.

I had posted this before heading to Cal's for breakfast, and was not expecting to hear from anyone fun from it.  Fun was going to be a hell of a reach for me that day, but I was casting about for comfort wherever I could find it.  My in-box was full of the usual dreck – got-a-pics, you-want-this-babies, I'm-games, the usual bullshit.  I was inclined to crawl back under my covers and sleep off another day of deep blues.  But the energy and laughter coming from the corner drew me back across the street.

I don't pick up men in bars much, or outside of them for that matter, preferring the easy introductions of the internet.  I haven't quite figured out why.  Perhaps I lack the casual ways of casual girls in casual settings.  Although I use Casual Encounters, I'm not really a casual person, and I suspect my intelligence and intensity frighten many off.  And I was feeling intensely blue that day.

I impulsively went downstairs and crossed the street, and followed the pair into the bar just as they finished their cigarettes.  Hot Guy was bouncy and blond, long legged and fit.  Not So Hot Guy was younger, taller, not as attractive, but with an open face and smile.  I was wearing a short skirt and sweater, anticipating a clearing and warming to the day that wasn't happening.  But my legs looked great, if a little goose bumpy from the cold.  I bought myself a Corona and took a stool near the pool table where they were playing.  Hot Guy was feeding quarters into the juke box:  Red Hot Chili Peppers, AC/DC, Counting Crows, loud and raucous.  He wore sunglasses even in the dark bar; Not So Hot wore a baseball cap, never a big pleaser here.  They were speaking to one another in what I thought was Spanish.

I watched them play for a few minutes before saying hello to Not So, who bravely spit out a broken hello of his own.  "Where are you from?" I asked, realizing that his English was going to be near useless. 

"Brazil."  Oh.  Not Spanish, then, Portuguese.  I already had one seriously hot Brazilian connection, so this news, coupled with the first few sips of Corona, was cheering me some.  I finished my beer as they finished their game, enjoying the cat-like grace of Hot Guy as he pranced around the table, posing and preening, hitting the balls hard with a little jump with each shot.  He was a pleasure to ogle, for sure, and he knew it.  When they finished their game, I formally introduced myself to them as we headed to the bar.  Hot Guy took off his sunglasses, and showed me astonishing green eyes, framed by some wrinkles that told me he was at least 35.  Not So was clearly younger.  Hot Guy introduced himself as Andre, and told me that his friend Jack didn't speak any English.  Andre was a little hard to understand, but offered me a beer in the universal language of alcohol.  I declined, saying I needed to go home and change into warmer clothes, but promising to come back. 

I didn't know how I would feel once I hit the apartment, and wasn't entirely sure I would return, but jeans, socks, boots and a jacket revived me, and I was back in five minutes.  They had waited for me to start another game, and asked me to join them.

There wasn't a lot of conversation, what with the screaming juke box and the language barrier, but within minutes of starting my second beer, Andre was standing behind me, instructing me how to properly hold the cue, arms wrapped around me as he talked softly into my ear.  I was helpless.  Something about him just melted my blues away.  His hand brushed against my breast, dangerously close to my hardening nipple.  Within minutes I was laughing, making bad shots, and generally acting like the silly bar girl I'm not.  If he had retreated into a corner and unzipped his pants at that point, I would have been happy to oblige him with a hot barroom blowjob.  As I carefully lined up an easy shot, really wanting to sink at least one ball, he lightly tapped me right on my clit, just as I hit the ball, which careened wildly across the table.  He was over-the-top hot to me, and I was ready for him.

Another beer and a game later, outside having another cigarette, I invited them to smoke some weed at my place.  A bit shocked by my boldness, and wary of having others in the bar see me go in to my place right across the street, I nevertheless led them to my apartment, messily disheveled after several days of depressed moping.  I turned on some perky music and threw some stray clothes into the bedroom, while Andre whipped out a rolling machine.  Mixing in a little tobacco with my good weed from Cal, he rolled and we smoked a joint, European style, he called it.

Now very buzzed, I collapsed into my arm chair, slouched back, legs outstretched, and watched his energy move around my apartment.  Jack had politely taken a chair by the window, blowing his cigarette smoke into the exhaust fan as I'd requested, and as Andre had explained to him in Portuguese.  After a while, Andre looked at me with a questioning raise of his eyebrows.  I knew just what he was asking, and I nodded yes.  Putting his hands on the arms of the chair, he leaned over and kissed me and I was gone.  This guy was going to make me feel good today, I was sure. 

Leaving Jack at the window, Andre and I headed to my bedroom, where I was naked in moments, kneeling before him.  "Pray," was his instruction to me.  He wanted my hands behind my back and my mouth available to him, and I was happy to oblige.  My blues receded as I drew him in, his hands on my head showing me just how deep he wanted it.  It remains one of the hottest blowjobs I've ever given.  I gave myself up to the rhythms of his hips, gently rocking on my own knees, letting him guide us.  After a time – I have no idea how long – he put me on my hands and knees on the floor, and began working me from behind, first with his fingers, and when I was dripping wet, slowly and deeply inserting his cock into my pussy, his hands holding my hips, rocking me onto him, his huge balls slapping my ass.  I could feel him touching bottom with each stroke, massaging the pain that lived there, so deep inside.  I had no thoughts of anything at that time but the sensations of our rhythms, and was oblivious to the growing rug burns on my elbows, knees and nose.  That first time, he came in a laughing string of Portuguese expletives, which I didn't understand but which made me laugh nonetheless.  In my blues, my own orgasm was elusive, leaving me in a chronic state of arousal, longing for more.

We took a break for a while, returning to Jack in the living room to smoke more weed.   Jack put his clothes back on and I slipped into the beloved red silk robe I've had since I was a teenager.  My CD changer was on the floor in the living room. Bending to hands and knees with my ass raised high on the beige carpet to change the music, Andre lifted my robe and caressed me, first gently, then with some gentle slaps on my pussy that kept me wet and ready, which wasn't hard.

Andre and Jack stayed into the evening, and Jack and I were back and forth from living room to bedroom many times.  We would come briefly back to the living room to join Jack for another smoke, another beer, more laughter, then retreat again and again, for more kissing, sucking, licking, stroking, fucking.  He was the cure for my depression, at least in the short term.  At some point I must have fallen asleep, and woke alone the next morning. 

The next day, still not working, I fielded a call from Andre around noon.  Did I want some company again?  Yes I certainly did.  I hadn't felt that good in a while, and was eager for more of his contagious energy.  The two of them arrived with more beer, a pizza and that slick little rolling machine, and our party was rolling again by three. 

We partied away the afternoon, much as we had the day before.  The persistent gray weather didn't call us to the outside, and we spent many hours drinking, eating, smoking, dancing, fucking.  At some point during the evening, I got to feeling sorry for Jack.  Andre and I were making all kinds of noise in our bedroom retreats.  I'm not quiet when I'm excited.  As we came out to the living room one more time, Andre's hand was cupping my pussy as I looked at Jack. "You too?" I asked him.  It just seemed as though there was enough heat in me for both of them at that point, and I wanted to share it.  Jack was confused.  "You want two boys?" Andre asked me.  Apparently I did.

After their brief consultation in Portuguese, Jack smiled broadly, and me still in Andre's arms, Jack came up behind me, nuzzling my neck and exploring my pussy through the thin silk of my robe.  We danced that way for a bit, the deep bass notes of Morphine urging us on.  Andre's tongue in my mouth, his hands pinching my nipples, Jack growing harder, pressing himself against me from behind.

We adjourned once again to the bedroom, where I soon found myself lying on my back on my bed, my head hanging off the end of it.  Andre stood behind me and his big cock found its way deep into my throat and worked me there, while Jack fucked me from below.  I've often been frustrated by a need to have a cock in my mouth at the same time I'm being fucked, and I'd finally found a way to have both.  Jack's rhythmic pounding below forced my mouth against Andre's cock, and the combined massage of pussy and throat both excited and soothed me.  Jack was tentative at first, but warmed to the scene quickly; Andre was in his element, and I suspected this wasn't the first time he'd done this.  He probably didn't realize it wasn't my first time in a threesome. 

We spent hours in my room, our respective nicotine addictions forgotten, and the boys worked me over… and over and over.  I had a cock in my throat and one in my ass; on my knees on the bed they stood over me and fed both their cocks to me, talking softly in Portuguese as they did so.  My blues were forgotten as I surrendered to them, relishing the sensations, but still waiting for my own orgasm. 

Andre's enthusiasm and energy were contagious, and I wanted more.  I had no idea what time it was when they left, but as they did, I heard what sounded like angry words between them, but I couldn't be sure after all that alcohol and the Portuguese.  When Andre called me the next day to go to the beach, I jumped.  He came alone to my apartment, and we rolled a couple of joints while I packed us a small picnic.  Caressing his stomach, I placed my tongue on a small scar, centered just an inch or so above his belly button.  I was shocked when his eyes filled up.  "I am not a boy," he said.  I looked at him questioningly, brushing a tear from his cheek.  "I am a man, and I have done things no man should do."

This was a huge change in mood.  I offered him a beer from the cooler, and asked him to tell me about it.  I was growing accustomed to his accent, and was able to decipher that he had been a soldier in Sierra Leone, had seen unspeakable atrocities, had killed a man and been shot himself.  After this confession, I, too, started to cry, as the waves of my own depression began to flood over me again.  When I tried to tell him that he was a soldier, just doing what he had to, he jumped up and ran out of my apartment, leaving me stunned and shaken.  And wanting.  Wanting more of a man who could put such pain away to play pool.  Who could live with such memories and still laugh.  Who could fuck through the pain.

We didn't get to the beach, and I hope he found the comfort or distraction he needed that day.  I have seen him a couple of times in the neighborhood after that, on the street, delivering pizza, his part time job, always smiling and bouncing.  And I fought off the blues one more time, as I have so many times before and since, and wish I could fuck the pain away as reliably as I did that weekend with Andre.

Republished with permission from Liz Doherty's Dirty Words. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.