True Sex Stories: The View From James’s Bed

James has a beautiful house.  And in it is a beautiful bedroom.  And in it is a cushy lush cozy bed.  And in it is me.

The minutes tick by on his clock.  It's got those old mechanical number tiles that flip with the passing minutes.  The sound reminds me of the sound of a beetle's legs on the ground- barely a living thing.  Clumsy and deliberate.

James picked me up last night, late.  I had shoved a bottle of cheap chardonnay into my school bag on the way out the door, along with tomorrow's underwear and a torn up shirt to sleep in.  It was my intention to tease him mercilessly- act as though the night were an innocent slumber party.  Make out a little.  Change demurely facing the wall, into a black t-shirt that hung off my shoulder and some little black boyshorts.

I had planned to spoon against him in the bed, making little sleepy noises into the crook of his arm, rubbing my ass against him and acting like I wasn't.  In the morning I was going to let him have his way, but the night would be a big tease.

It didn't quite work out that way.  When he kissed me in his kitchen, a sensory arsenal took me down.  His hair was silky.  His cashmere sweater skimmed his muscular frame, begging me to touch. I did.  He smelled like soap.  He held me to him with gentle, skilled hands and a mix of confidence and a desire to not push me too much.  He is sweet, and genuine.  When he is turned on he growls like a bear.

His hands slid my sweater off my shoulder.  He kissed me there and goosebumps washed over my body.  His hand grazed the top of my tank top and pulled down slowly.  I had bruises on my breasts- from Zac on Friday and maybe some from The Chef yesterday.  I tried not to think about how many hands had touched me in the last few days- though all welcome and wonderful- and wondered if my make-up spackle would hide the purple.

"Bruises.  Naughty girl…" he murmured, and traced the purple with his hands.  He lifted my sweater and bra off of me and took my nipples into his warm mouth, one at a time.  I grabbed him by his hair, kissed him, and suggested we go upstairs.

When he was doing something (brushing his teeth?) I took off my jeans and sweater.  He had promised me a massage earlier, and I lay down expectantly on his bed.  Eventually the bra and tank top and underwear came off too as he rubbed some wonderful-smelling lotion into my back and butt.  His slippery hands skimmed over my ass and I subconsciously arched my back, begging.

He fucked me with his fingers, bring me up and crashing down and never quite to orgasm.  He hit me with his belt, first across my ass and then later on my breasts.  He tenderly kissed my hot raised skin, praising me for my efforts and rubbing lotion on the welts to soothe them.

He is a sadist- more than The Chef or Zac- but he's a caretaker too.  He likes to watch me cry out in pain, and he likes to pull me into his arms and breathe into my hair and whisper about how he likes to take care of people and protect them.

I sucked his cock this morning.  He is long, and thick, and rock hard.  I want to fuck him.  I think he's too big to fit in my ass.

I have a smattering of red and purple spots across my chest this morning.  James has added his mark, like carving initials into a tree.  I snuggle in his bed alone (now 3:30 in the afternoon- the cars passing by have their headlights on) fresh from the shower, working on school work and waiting for him to return from his errands.

I sent him a text- a picture of my round ass in my peach boyshorts with tiny white polka dots and white lace around the edges.  It's taken in his dresser mirror, framed by his clock and a pile of laundry.

I refuse to get out of this bed until something- his cock or his fingers or his tongue- has been inside me. 

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