The Iranian

I met him on a sunny afternoon in Manhattan’s Herald Square. Young (mid 20s), muscular and attractive I found myself instantly drawn to him. He had dark hair and eyes and looked to be Iranian. He’d noticed the novel I’d carried (Stewardship of the Earth: a Resident’s Guide) and mumbled something about ‘wacko environmentalist’. I turned and challenged him immediately. After 40 years of dealing with numerous self-assured cocky know-it-alls I knew how to handle them expertly.

“Excuse me?”

Thus began two hours of debate, which continued as we migrated to the nearby coffee shop and then again to his apartment nearby (for dinner). We discussed economics; we rehashed philosophy and politics. He was quick witted which covered for the inherent weaknesses in his viewpoints. I felt I had a good chance of actually turning his opinion on a number of important issues.

By dinner we were ready to call ‘truce’ and as he poured me a glass of red wine I relaxed, letting the tension slip out of me. Arguing prompts the flight or fight response pretty intensely within me and it felt good to let my guard down. Dinner was a simple affair: pasta with a light vodka sauce and fresh bread. He cooked as well as he argued and I was satiated. Another glass of wine was poured and then another.

Eventually I lost track of the wine refills, but never his persistent gaze. I realized, probably a bit too late that he canlı bahis şirketaleri was into me. Right about then was when he asked me point blank if I’d like to fuck him.

There are those moments where everything moves in slow motion and you feel yourself watching yourself in a detached fashion. This was one of those moments and I watched helplessly as my mouth betrayed me and consented.

He needed no further prompting and he moved across the room and sat beside me on the sofa. He moved his body closer to mine and began to kiss me. He tasted of red wine and smelled of musk. My body felt heavy.

“Are you ok? Have you had too much to drink? Are you sure you want to fuck?”

He asked me all of these things and while I was a bit tipsy I was convinced that letting him screw me was exactly what I wanted. So I nodded, again providing my consent.

He expertly stripped off my clothes, my blouse and bra (red) first before moving onto my skirt and panties (silk). For such a young guy, he moved expertly, prepping my clit with his slicked (he had licked them) fingers, and coaxing me to wetness. He dispensed with the formalities of the rest of foreplay. I don’t recall much conversation after that but I do remember he told me he was in medical school. I watched casually as he released himself from his own clothing and slipped a lubricated condom over his hardened shaft. He spread my canlı kaçak iddaa legs with both hands and in one fluid motion slipped his hands down the outside of my thighs and under my ass. He lifted my ass (an impressive maneuver considering my size 12 dimensions), dipped his shoulders down to swing my legs over them, and slipped his cock into my wetness without missing a beat.

I spent the first few moments of his thrusts mentally replaying the coordination and accuracy of that trick and feeling amazing at the mechanics of his motions. Each time he slid into me it was deep and satisfying, his body slapping against mine deliciously. Sex had never been this good with anyone, anywhere, ever. The wine was tampering with my ability to orgasm and he climaxed before I was able to.

Slipping out, he slid off his condom and put his fingers to work and played my clit as if it were a delicate instrument until I finally erupted in a symphony of moans. I thought we were finished. I was wrong.

He asked me to go down on him, explaining that the technique worked perfectly to get him hard again quickly for the next round.

“There’s going to be another round?” I asked, dumbfounded. I’d never been with a man who was up for a second round so quickly following the first. I was intrigued, and still more than a little drunk.

I got down to giving him what in retrospect was the sloppiest blow job canlı kaçak bahis I’ve ever delivered. Again, I blame the wine. He seemed to enjoy it alright as my tongue lapped at his balls and swirled around his dick. He was hard within minutes and pulled me away from him abruptly with the announcement that he wanted to fuck me doggie style this time.

He instructed me to get down on all fours on the floor and tilt my ass into the air. I did. Typically I’m not this compliant, especially with right wing self-righteous blowhards but again I blame the wine (did I say that already?).

As I was tipsy it was extremely difficult to remember the precise order of his triple threat but I can report it is most assuredly a winning combination: he slapped my ass repeatedly while calling me ‘dirty girl’; he pulled my hair (hard!) from behind, and he slammed his cock into my pussy incredibly hard. It was fantastic. I wanted to cum again but my body was just a bit slow on the sensation coordination from pussy to brain and I needed a little help. I reached my right hand under my torso and down over my waiting clit and began to tickle it gently. When that didn’t push things along I rubbed it intensely as I listened to him call me his dirty whore. That did it for me, and I shook violently with orgasm. Within four strokes he was right there with me.

I like to think my incoherent screams of pleasure brought him over the edge.

Confession: every man I’ve ever slept with since has been aided by my memory of this encounter. When the going gets dull, this girl reaches back to the time her hair was pulled while she was called a dirty whore and slapped on the ass.