Note: This project, a combination of fiction and memoir, remains unfinished, and may be unfinished forever… But still I thought it would be worth collecting it in its entirety on one page!
THE STORY OF C – PREFACE
It’s Winter 2013, it’s Berlin, it’s cold, and it’s dark.
Sprawling, strange Berlin. Perhaps I should revise my location. Our protagonist who we’ll call C is based in Lichterfelde, a leafy and tame suburb of the growling, exciting behemoth that is the city proper.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I will allow her to tell the story herself, in her own words. I am merely here to explain the circumstances around this remarkable text.
There’s snow on the ground, but mainly it’s dark. I am but a visitor to this strange city. I sublet an apartment in Lichterfelde in order to get some quiet. My home is New York City. I live on the Upper West Side and I work in finance. After a personal misfortune in love leading to a change in my overall performance and mien in the office, I took the (not unkind, but not kind) suggestion of my employer to take a year off. They did not need to know the details of my heartbreak to see my sudden decline. They suggested crisp, country air. My cosmopolitan needs are such that I couldn’t imagine being away from the Urban for very long. A long train of recommendations later, and I found myself in the fresh white snow of Lichterfelde, letting myself into a colleague’s summer apartment. I came here with the intention of resting and letting the cold and quiet numb my wounds. Instead I became engrossed in a story, the story of C.
These writings that I present here are the notorious and scandalous Story of C, published for the first time. Whether they are fact or fiction is unknown to me. Whether they were written by man or woman or neither is unknown to me. I only know what I have read is remarkable, too remarkable to go unshared.
I found this text in a computer that was left in the study of my temporary apartment. Any other information as to the identity of the writer is unknown. The computer was devoid of all other files, leaving only this.
We will never know who C was, and why she wrote or did what she did. But we can enjoy this strange adventure and follow her as far as she will take us.
THE STORY OF C – CHAPTER 1
On my way to Berlin for the first time, sitting in the uncomfortable plane seat, I doze and I dream I am touching myself. I dream I am edging, getting closer and closer to orgasm, getting wetter and wetter. I wake myself up with a deep moan of dissatisfaction. The man in the seat next to me doesn’t know what to make of this. I check that my hand is stowed, safely out of sight, beneath the blanket, which I have draped loosely over me. I want to see if I’m as wet as in my dream. I am. I touch myself, sneaking glances at the man next to me to be sure he isn’t looking, or if he’s looking, that he won’t tell. I fall asleep again with my hand on myself, and dream of Amy, always Amy…
When I arrive in the city, bleary and tired to the point of tearful, Ulrike greets me. She has slightly crooked teeth, which are charming, and warm brown eyes. She has the perfect breasts to hold in a hand, I can tell. They are pert, not too small, not too big, just the right size for a handful. I stare at her eyes quite a lot. She meets my gaze and holds it. I also stare at her tits quite a lot. If she notices, she doesn’t let on. And she is to be my German tutor. If I wasn’t so broken-hearted already I might fall in love. You could drown in a gaze like that.
She takes me shopping for “bettwäsche” (bed linens). I can’t help but wonder if she’ll ever be in my bed with me. I can’t help but imagine it. I’m living in the dorm, so undoubtedly the bed is tiny. We’d have to huddle close together on the narrow bed. She’d be both soft and bony against me. I imagine her straight brown-gold hair ruffled, her face soft with sleep in the sunlight of the morning.
Damn. Could my tutor not have been a less beautiful person?
Jet-lagged and beyond exhausted, it takes me hours to choose a few things for my bed. I’m dismayed to find they don’t carry the thin cotton blankets of my childhood; only duvets. I keep my brave face on until Ulrike leaves me to unpack. And then first thing, I set up the bed. Second, I cry, facedown in it, until I fall asleep.
As the months go by, the sky gets grayer. Ulrike is professional to a fault. She corrects my grammar and isn’t even kinky about it. I start my classes. I start failing my classes. And the sky gets grayer. Every day, colder. Every day, grayer.
I am running along the street, Goerzallee. Running past the urban garden homes, the craggy trees, the garbage cans, the truck stops. I don’t see the graffiti. I don’t see the rubble, the construction. I am panting. I see my feet churning in time. I see the pavement beneath them and before them. I hear the cold air tear in and out of my lungs. I am a bagpipe. I play in rhythm, but there are no pitches. There is no tune. My eyes blink in time. I don’t see the men in overalls waiting at the busstop. I don’t see the young blonde boys in hoodies and sweats and baseball caps. I see their sneakers. Hi-top, Velcro, lime green, electric purple. A platform from which to view the world. An air bubble on which to ride through the city.
Converse. Adidas. Nike. Just do it. Do what exactly?
I don’t see the wan women with their prams. I don’t see the women, with their hair piled atop their heads, with their faces made up. We’re all whores. We don’t know how not to be. I’m sweating. My legs are rubbing together through the spandex. The blood is rushing down to my secret spot. The rest of my body could freeze and wither; my oh-so-lady-like rose would remain alive and red and pulsing. I should have worn a bra. My small breasts bounce and I want to touch them. Pinch my nipples until they stand out. Especially the left one, the one that hides in itself like it’s afraid of being abused. I’d like to meet the woman who has two identical breasts. I’d like to punch her in the stomach and leave her lying on the street.
It doesn’t hurt, the bouncing. But I hate what it means. My small breasts are slightly less small than before. They are big enough to bounce. They are big enough for someone to tell me I need a bra. They are big enough for someone to call me a girl. They label me. I hate them. I want to hold them in. Bind them up. Press them into my chest until they disappear. I like my ex-girlfriend’s breasts. I like lying on them. I like seeing their secretive curves from under her clothes. I like them in my mouth. The skin there is softest. Fuck. I wait at the red light, thinking about ex-girlfriend. And her breasts. The signal turns green. Think about the trucks, not ex-girlfriend. A young man with headphones is walking opposite me. He is reading my American sweatshirt, watching what moves there. His gaze moves. He is looking at my spandex legs. He is coveting them. He is mesmerized by the intimacy of my legs. They won’t stop touching each other, dirty sluts.
“Looking good,” he says with a leer. I don’t answer. I want to say something cutting in German. The moment is passed. I don’t turn back. I only run. He is probably coveting my ass now. He has greedy eyes. I am not yours to behold. I exist for more than your enjoyment. My self worth has nothing to do with your approval or that of society. I want him to corner me in an alley and pin me against the wall and fuck me until I scream and cry for mercy. I want his hands pinning my wrists against something painful and his cock inside me. I want his friends to come and fuck me too. Pass me around like a rag doll. Make me cum against my will a thousand times until I’m limp and shaking with overuse, broken with pleasure, full of cum. Call me a whore for moaning. Tell me I wanted it. Slap my ass a little bit. Pinch my nipples a little too hard. I like that. I’m a fucking hypocrite. It’s not normal, is it? Would I actually moan, if it happened? Would I actually cum?
I have to fap after my run. I grind on my fist, thinking of ex-girlfriend’s tits and being fucked violently on the street. Although I can’t call it fapping unless I have a dick. I wish I had a dick. I don’t cum. I roll over frustrated and take a shower. Tomorrow I’ll go running again. And I’ll have to fap again. And I won’t cum. Sometimes I have to stop myself from rubbing my face against people’s arms on the subway. When the subway car rattles, I fidget in my seat. Maybe it’s better if I stand.
What’s wrong with me? I dream about cocks. I dream about ex-girlfriend fucking me with a cock. Men and women of all colors, shapes, sizes. Am I even gay? Or is it the hottest new thing, another piece of clothing I put on to be part of a certain crowd, another layer of deception. She’s cool. She’s alternative. Sex-positive. She’ll fuck anybody. No discrimination, it’s all fucking after all. She just wants to get off. Being a lesbian is the best way to do it. But she doesn’t look at them while she’s getting fucked. She closes her eyes and no one knows what goes on in the closed theater behind her eyelids. No one knows what plays out on the stage of her imagination. She’s lazy. She’s selfish. She just wants to get off. If licking some girl’s pussy is her ticket to an orgasm, then she’ll do it. She doesn’t dislike licking pussy. In fact she gets something out of the feel of those wet lips soft and hot against hers. But she only likes licking pussy because it turns her on and it only turns her on because she knows her turn is next. Read my credentials to the rainbow committee. Am I queer enough for you? One long-term girlfriend under my belt and a handful of misguided and unpleasant experiences with dicks. Figurative, pejorative, and literal dicks, if you wanted to know. What secrets are in my file that even I am not privy to?
THE COMMITTEE: We saw you ogling that man on the subway. We saw you making eyes at him. We saw you staring at his crotch.
C: I was imagining my ex-girlfriend with a dildo, I swear!
THE COMMITTEE: You wanted his dick. You wanted it.
C: So what if I did! What does that prove!
[RUSTLING IN THE GALLERY. WHISPERING.]
THE COMMITTEE: We hereby rule that applicant C shall be denied entry unto the RAINBOW COMMITTEE until such a time as she demonstrates TRUE GAYNESS as set down by Provision A of the Completely Arbitrary Legal Document. The committee recommends especially that you cut your long hair, learn to swagger, and cease fucking men. You are dismissed.
So deny me membership to the gay club. I ogle whomever I want. I ogle whatever I want.
I haven’t washed my hair for days now. I can’t remember how many. It’s my way of proving to myself that I’m alternative. I’m not like the others. I don’t shave. I don’t wash myself. I’m not clean, like you, like your kids, like your baby pram, like your husband, like your house, like your bourgeois life. I just want someone to love me like this, as I am.
I put gay next to my name yesterday. An online dating profile. A new identity. I’m gay. I’m openly gay. I want the whole world to know. It’s better this way. It felt good. But I still want to fuck my next door neighbor, Mike H. I hear him shifting in his sleep. I hear him laughing on the phone. Our beds are next to each other. I can hear him through the thin walls. So close and so far. Sometimes I put my hands against the wall and try to feel his presence. Ask me a question from your prison cell and I’ll answer. We are two convicts in the same prison. Two convicts in love. Two convicts in lust. I’m carried away with the fantasy. But the reality is this: One convict in lust. One citizen visiting the insane asylum and laughing, concerned, at what he sees. I hate myself when I drink. I can’t stop the thoughts from tumbling down out of my head and out of my mouth. My cheeks glow. I reveal my secrets. I am young again and trust in all. My next door neighbor is also a musician. I don’t care. To me, he’s a body. A body that I want. Nothing more. So I tell myself as I nurse my wounds and retreat to my cell.
I remember rejection. I am made of rejection these days. Crush me, kill me, it’s just what I want.
That night was beautiful and perfect. The cold of Berlin. The lights. The thrum of the S-bahn. The exhilaration of giving up my heart to another and believing it might find a home there. The leap of boldly declaring my best secrets: I like being tied up. I have fantasies. I can never cum when I masturbate. I like being fucked from behind best, how about you? My ex girlfriend was into knife play. I’m freaky… Secrets are erotic smoke. Secrets are invitations, pleas. Help me. Help me cum. Touch me. Fuck me fuck me fuck me. Berlin reflects, a beautiful pale mirror full of lives and counterlives and halflives. That night I saw my open heart reflected in its surface. My beautiful foreign life. My beautiful foreign love. But it turned sour. Hold me. I’ve confessed too much. The incense of my secrets has dissipated and all that is left is a vague fragrance, difficult to name. I have gone too far, given too much up. I have no secrets left to give. My secrets are now torn open and you own them. I’ve given them to you without so much as a bill of sale and I can never get them back. Knowledge is like that. But you can’t love me. You can’t even fuck me. You already have a female body you own and you’re attached to it. It might as well be a paper doll for all I care. I have ruined everything. Everything. Just by admitting to myself (and to you) that I wanted you.
But I wanted anyone. Any warm body will do. That’s what I tell myself. I have no mirror in my room here. Berlin is my mirror. The violent buzz of the U-Bahn. The angry hum of traffic. The glare of the streetlight. The cold, dark night and the sadness of watching my breath purling away into the night air, a pocket of my moist warmth swallowed by and lost in the cold and dark. I hate everything tonight.
Mike H hears me weeping through our thin walls. I am weeping for him. I am weeping for me. I am weeping for every person who ever felt loneliness. I am weeping because I am a loon with no partner to return my cry. I am weeping because winter treads ever nearer. I am weeping because weeping is my right. My neighbor treads lightly around me in the following days, asks tentative questions, treats me as though I were mad. I slowly allow our interactions to return to the status quo. Nothing special. Just neighbors. Uninterested in each other’s lives. How I despise mediocrity. We tell each other bland lies to keep the gunpowder soggy. There will be no sparks here. What would he do if I slipped into his room in the dead of night and bared my soul and body to him once more? How would he react to such honesty? Honesty is insanity. I still trace my fingers on the wall between his slumbering body and mine. I can hear the faint rumble of his breathing. I am languishing. How I hate languishing. I should go out into the street and fuck the next person that I see. Just to stop the languishing. The pining. The sighing. The tiptoeing. I wait for him to come home from orchestra on Wednesday evenings. I wait to hear his voice in the kitchen, his blustery half-singing, then I emerge for a glass of water, tea, wine, anything. I should cut him from my life, so that I can go about the business that is my life.
I miss ex girlfriend. She would know what to say to make my languishing stop. She would have the magic words to end the spell. And yet I languish over her as well. I am the languishing kind.
I’m going to cut off all my hair. M said he liked it. He can’t have it. It’s gone. Where are the scissors? I want to cut open my heart.
Ex girlfriend told me she made me squirt. I don’t know if I believe her, or if I think the squirting female is like the yeti—part myth, part fairytale, part urban legend. I would like to boast about it—“I’m a squirter! Legends are written and ballads are sung and myths are told about me.” But such boasts make pressure. If you can’t make me squirt you must be doing something wrong. Or maybe I can’t squirt at all.
Soon I will travel home. I want to hide my face from those familiar faces. They know nothing about me, and yet they know everything.
In the airport again, headed home. It will be cold there, but not as gray.
Do the security officials know I’m queer? Does the man see from my black oxford shoes and obvious lack of brassiere that I’m alternative, that my secret cave is not for him or any of his kind? Does he take stock of my plain, clean face, the faint scent of patchouli and rosemary, the argyle sweater, better yet the ratty unwashed tank top underneath? Does he wonder at my lack of toiletries? What does anybody notice about another person? I am nothing but one of the many extras on the set that is his life. Perhaps I will reappear to him in a dream. Perhaps he will dream of me kissing the blonde over there with the pearl earrings and wonder why. Or maybe my face will vanish forever from his consciousness.
I have a feminine face. Round, rosy, childishly formed. I long for an androgynous face—ambiguous angles, sharp lines. I have feminine legs and a feminine butt, well shaped, as though I were carved out of alabaster. But my flat chest is far from feminine. Even in the lesbian shows I watch I see no form like mine. How will anyone know I’m queer if I don’t have a lean, lank, languid, androgynous body and choppy, tousled hair? Maybe I’m just desperate for love and not queer at all. Willing to take anything I can get. What does queer even mean? Is it the clothes I wear? Is it my hair? Or is it the fact that I sleep with women?
I feel more lesbian these days. Is ex girlfriend really proof enough of my gayness? What do I need to do, to make it obvious to you? Cut off my beauty, my hair, my ties to society? Take the curved lump of flesh that is my arse and give it to you, still bleeding? Get a tattoo? Move to LA? Is that where they live? But is that not just conforming to another ideal of beauty? Can I not just be myself?
Love is a strange flower
Exotic second cousin to the orchid
Fickle, it leans forward, a long drooping neck
Asks for tending
But when you overwater it
They wanted to see God.
So they built planes.
When I get back from the US I will fuck the first person I find. If I can’t be gay enough, I might as well embrace it and find a dick to fuck.
THE STORY OF C – CHAPTER 2
Back in the US I call up an old friend, a friend who once liked me, a man. We get coffee, and it’s all very civilized. We discuss ex-lovers, his foot fetish, my submissiveness, our favorite seafood recipes, and the flawed concept of romance. Back at his place, we make cupcakes and then put frosting on each other. When I ask him where the bedroom is, he tells me he’s actually a romantic and still loves his ex-girlfriend who lives in Virginia. Fair enough. But then why did you let yourself put pink frosting on my nipples and lick it off?
Suffice to say, I’m glad to get back on the plane and head back to Berlin, gray though it may be. At least every week I get to see Ulrike. Her shining hair, her slim fingers, so much longer than mine, her knobby knees.
I miss Amy. But I must forget her.
It’s night here in Berlin. I have just purchased a sleek-looking blue silicon vibrator from FunFactory. Embarrassed by the FunFactory bag, I hid the evidence of my multi-faceted sexuality and high libido in a plain canvas bag. I have been masturbating for days on end with no orgasm in sight… I have been waiting to do this for as long as I have been a sentiently sexual being. Now that I have, I have my misgivings–my sole advice giver for affairs such as these is my ex-girlfriend. I realize belatedly that I have chosen electric blue, as if in homage to her color preferences. Only yesterday she was saying to me how she wished her vibrator was electric blue. (And yes, we are still close enough to share experiences like the color of her vibrator.) I realize also that many of my ideas lately are influenced by the almost invisible and certainly un-purposeful hand of my ex-girlfriend: the fact that I have purchased a vibrator at all, and one from FunFactory, and an electric blue one, rechargeable. She would approve. She will approve, for I’m bound to tell her. My last absurd hair idea was to dye my hair blue. But how much of this style move would be the result of Amy’s influence? I never wanted to dye my hair before I met her. O fie. O spite. O hell, as the characters in Midsummernights Dream would say.
I am fidgety on the hour long S-Bahn ride back home. I want to try my new toy. I want to see if it will be the solution to my masturbation problem. I carefully practiced what to say before I left for my journey to the FunFactory in Hackeschermarkt. “Ich masturbiere studenlang, aber ich komme nie. Bitte helfen Sie mir, ich bin fast verrueckt.” But I didn’t have to say those desperate words. After a brief and professional overview of the toys, I was left alone with my desperation to choose shape and color. I chose the ‘ocean’ model (as I have said, in electric blue). It is petite (perhaps too petite) with two stylized wave-like bumps attached to a short hilt. When I finally get home (one wrong S-Bahn and several other trains and buses later) I can hardly wait to tear open the packaging. No one is home in the apartment. Fortuitous fate! While I wait for the vibe to charge, I tab over to my new sex-blog obsession “Leah lays London,” in which the writer posts sexual ads to craigslistlondon in search of “casual kink,” an idea that has taken me by force. Sex, without the usual torturous dating process… and kinky sex, at that. A dangerous risk, most likely. But it appeals on so many different levels. An hour or two later, moist in my panties and gagging for release, I roll over to check on the vibrator… which still flashes its red light of unavailability at me. I finally cave and read the directions, which inform me that 6-8 hours are required to fully charge the vibe. Resigned, I close the smut tab and dedicate myself to my musical pursuits. But in the evening after dinner, I see that the vibe is ready. I put on loud music with long songs (which already feels strange and artificial… but my walls are thin and I do not want to be overheard, especially if I don’t come). Overly excited mentally, and not at all excited physically, I make a cursory attempt to whet my appetite (wet myself, actually), which amounts to very little. But with lube and a little bit of patience, I come within 20 minutes. It is perhaps 10 percent capacity, but I am satisfied for now with this outcome. The lube is sticky and sweet, a strange flavor when combined with my salty, sweaty animal musk. I resolve to prepare myself more thoroughly in my next experiment, so that I do not have to taste the incongruity once again.
Inexplicably (or perhaps too terribly explicably) and suddenly, I miss my ex-girlfriend. I am angry that coming has this effect on me. I am angry that I have no one to tell about my little death. I am angry that my vibrator is electric blue. I am angry that I have no one to report this purchase to, other than Amy. I want to fall in love quite desperately. Anyone will do. Woman seeks lovable pair of fingers. Woman seeks all-consuming sex with disembodied cock. Woman seeks a warm body, to help her forget. When these things are not found, as they inevitably are not, woman seeks alcohol, vibrator, and lube. I may cry tonight.
Awoke myself this morning with the vibe. I am of course still hungry for more, but I can’t justify spending the day with my vibrator in bed, especially because I fear the magic ending. I fear the day when I wake up and the vibrator is no longer strong enough for my dulled clitoris. I fear the day when I wake up and no partner is able to satisfy me like my vibrator. In fear of that day, I try not to overuse the power I have been given. But it is so tempting. After 11 months of not coming, I am finally getting some measure of release. But I remind myself that a lover is what I’m looking for, not a toy. Using the toy gives me a grim sort of panic. I must find a lover. Sooner, rather than later.
Perhaps my thoughts should turn to something other than sex now. It may be an indication to you of the magnitude of my preoccupation with sex, that I can think of no other interesting topic.
Berlin today is dull and gray and cold no doubt. Light snow is predicted. It is April. Where others are enjoying the blooming of spring, we remain mired in fog and snow and clouds and sadness. It is true that Berlin has only two seasons. Summer and winter. And what a long winter it has been.
Maybe today I will flip a coin to decide whether or not I will post a craigslist ad. What’s the worst that can happen? I post the ad and all the responses are creepy. Or, I post the ad and the responses are creepy, but I don’t realize, and end up going on dates with creeps. Dangerous days. My subconscious is overflowing with sex. I dreamt last night of nude male models being photographed brazenly in a restaurant.
Now is the time for me to be doing dangerous things. When will I have this chance again?
I dreamt last night of pressing my round ass into a man’s hard penis. He would shy away, embarrassed, but I was brazen and laughing like a young goddess.
THE STORY OF C – CHAPTER 3
THE CRAIGSLIST AD
I am an American and I have been here in Berlin as a student since September.
My set of sexual experiences is unique because of my dating history. I dated a woman steadily for 2 years, during which time we experimented with kink enough for me to know that I am submissive in bed, have a relatively high libido, and am open to trying new things. Ask about the details of that experimentation and I will answer. Now that this woman and I have split, I have noticed the large gap in my sexual experience: the penis. Although I am attracted to all manner of person, I have only the smallest handful of sexual experiences with men to relate (all of which were not great). I will be in Berlin until July and I hope to remedy this woeful lack of knowledge in that time.
I am looking to learn something. I am looking for casual sex. Condoms must be worn… this is non-negotiable. I am healthy and disease free and you should be too. Race and nationality are not relevant considerations to me. Interesting fantasies are a plus.
If you’re still with me here, please write to me. One-liners, pictures of your junk, and responses riddled with typos and spelling errors will be deleted with no mercy. Share a fantasy with me. Intrigue me. Pique my curiosity. Start a discussion that I will want to continue (via email to start). As you can see from the title, I live in Lichterfelde, so it is best if you can host. If you want a picture, you will have to send one to me. Auch gern auf deutsch, aber ich besetze natürlich keine muttersprachliche Kompetenz.
I look forward to your answer.
THE STORY OF C – CHAPTER 4
Almost 200 responses to my craigslist ad have consumed my consciousness. Every morning I wake up wondering what obscene propositions might be awaiting me. The cycle is never ending. I want so badly to spill this secret to Amy, to get her opinions about my internet swains, to laugh at the clichés and downright horrible messages, to mull over the promising ones. Yet I feel that this would be too much like getting her permission to date someone new. I am certain that she would attempt to dissuade me from my venture, and I know that I can only feel resentment if she is successful. I have very perfectly rationalized this craigslist ad in my mind: meeting someone from craigslist for a date (or sex) is infinitely safer than having a one night stand with a stranger in a bar, I assure myself, for at a bar one does not have the benefit of a thorough email screening process. I rationalize that OKCupid is in many ways equally as dangerous if not more: on OKCupid everyone is lying about their motives. At least on the casual encounters board it is clear to all that I am looking for sex of a particular kind. I am hoping that my open honesty inspires others to be honest… yet the suspicion that this venture is likely to get me raped, killed, or somehow otherwise injured still plagues me. I haven’t met any of the men yet. I actually have a blistering head and chest cold.
It’s sunny and blue skied today in Berlin. How could it be though? It seems it must be a surreal fantasy, a flight of the fancy. Last night I had 5 or 6 beers, beginning at 4pm and ending at 2am. Not a single beer did I pay for. I was sitting on Mariusz’s lap, experimenting with him. His arm wrapped around my waist, holding me in place. I nudged his legs with mine and moved my arm purposefully from its platonic place on his shoulder to a lower position. His response, whether conscious or unconscious, was to snake the arm a little firmer around my waist, to shift his grip on me. Unconsciously, he was taking possession of me. I wondered if he could feel the heat of my sex against his thigh, even through the layers of cloth. The day had been warmed by sun, but the night grew cold and I began to feel like my cunt was radiating warmth. I ran my hand through his hair occasionally, playing the exquisite game of touch and trying to gauge his reaction. I laugh as I retell this, because I will tell you reader, I am not attracted to Mariusz. He is a present and warm body. That seems to be all I need right now.
After I parted company with the internationals, I met up with Chris, one of my first Craigslist liaisons. My thigh high tights make me wanton. Sad as I am that the left one has a run in it, I have to admit that it made me all the bolder. I waited for Chris at the fountain by Rathaus Steglitz, playing with rubbing my stockinged legs together, attempting to find the position that displayed my legs at the best angle. I was only dimly aware of the danger I was in–a drunk girl sitting on a fountain in public in a big city on a Saturday night who has told no one where she is other than a strange man who knows of her only through her sex ad on the internet is a girl in danger. I could have been raped or picked up by any of the curious passerby, and if I called my craigslist meet up for help, who’s to say he wouldn’t just join in?
These concerns for my safety are far from my mind. I feel deliciously brave and dirty in my backless dress and thigh high tights. I cannot wait for summer to come at last, for the nights to become warm enough for sun dresses and bare legs and soft soft skin. I have my first jolt of panic and concern when Chris introduces himself to me.
What have I gotten myself into? I think. He is tall, with a big barrel of a chest and a tasteful haircut. Black-rimmed glasses give him an intellectual air. Beer number 5 is lending me all of its courage and social grace. We trip along to the bar Clandestine, discussing any number of innocuous topics. What he does, what I do, why craigslist, spontaneity, being young. We take possession of a low love seat in the bar and he laughs when he hears me speaking German. “It’s like I think I’m in America, and then suddenly you turn around and speak my mother tongue to somebody.” He’s impressed by my German–most people are when they hear that I’ve only studied for a year and a half. He orders some kind of rum based drink and I get a Fassbrause-Pilsner. Our knees are touching. I am hyper aware of this as I sip my Fassbrause and allow myself to expand upon the subject of my life. He asks a bit about my ex-girlfriend, perhaps because he’s interested, perhaps because it turns him on a little. I explain that we tried everything from light bondage to knifeplay. I explain the epiphanic moment of my first orgasm, being bathed in sunlight as my girlfriend works unknown magic on my cunt, the feeling of becoming the light that streams in on me, the realization that I will be chasing that moment for the rest of my life.
He agrees that the first orgasm will never be topped and shares his own sex-epiphany story (whose details I sadly can’t remember). It’s late and our drinks are finished. He says intensely,”Wanna find a hotel?” My skin jumps and my cunt warms and my eyes widen in surprise and uncertainty. My reaction is clearly written upon my face. He laughs, “You thought I was serious, didn’t you?”
Yes, yes I did. I peer at him in indecision, for I know that I would have said yes. He, in turn, becomes serious as well. “I would love to teach you about my cock,” he says. He begins to rub my neck distractingly. I am putty in his hands. Whatever he wants, I will do. I realize in this moment I would do anything to be fucked. The needs of my body make me weak of will. His hand on my neck is all I can concentrate on. It floods my nether regions with heat. “Are you horny right now?” he asks.
I laugh a little bit. “Always.”
I feel like I can do nothing but look at him, I feel unable to make this decision myself. Perhaps he sees that in my eyes. He runs his fingers through my hair. I am a gun with a sensitive trigger; the slightest touch will set me off. Yes my latent sexuality is a dangerous thing. My arousal is a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off.
He says, “Let’s go for a walk.” We traverse the familiar ways of Rathaus Steglitz. I walk in the direction of the bus, as is my habit. We pass a Best Western on the way, whose foyer is still lit. “We could be up there in 10 minutes,” he says.
I am tantalized and paralyzed by this idea. “Maybe I’ll just see how long the bus is going to take,” I say. He seems to be laughing inwardly, perhaps because I told him just how passive and poor a decision-maker I am. He walks me across the street. I look at him, most likely with the indecision scrawled across my face.
“I know you’re just waiting for me to make the decision, right?” he says. I laugh. Well, yes, actually. He admits that he has an appointment with his family in the morning and that he doesn’t want to catch my cold. He doesn’t think he’s the right person for what I need. A one night stand won’t be enough to teach me what I want to know. He’s right I suppose. Disappointed, but relieved and understanding. We embrace as a good bye and I get on the bus with wobbly legs and hot desire. Later, I masturbate, imagining myself on my knees in front of him. I imagine the hotel room, my naked form in the mirror as I kneel submissively before his cock, ready to be the best student I can, eager to learn how best to lick, suck, and be fucked. I come thinking of him, the handsome stranger I’ll never see again.
THE STORY OF C – CHAPTER 5
I wake up thinking of her again. It seems strange to me that I never wrote about her while we were together. It seems that each day my memory gets ever hazier. I want to relive the sweetness of our fucking… I wonder if I’ll never come that way again, so fully. I remember the frenzy of those hormone filled days at our college (a women’s college whose name I won’t stain with my own sexual exploits). I remember waiting like a puppy for her return outside her dorm room. Waiting for her to come back and hold my pussy in one hand and my throat in the other. “You come harder this way,” she told me one day, with her hand possessively on my neck. After that day she began experimenting with my breathing, telling me when and how to breathe. And every time we fucked I came like a landslide, as many times as she saw fit. Slowly, leisurely in the sun-stream morning when neither of us had class, unreservedly, sometimes hurried, sometimes slow in the afternoon, quickly in the evening before her roommate was due back from her class off-campus, silently in the middle of the night with her hand across my mouth to enjoin me to hush as she tortured my slick clit and slit ever-so-slowly with her finger. We fucked in her college regulation twin bed, on the couch in the common room, on the pool table in the student center, underneath a tree on College Green, on tables and desk-chairs in the classrooms after hours, in the small study cells in the library and even on the window seat in front of the picture windows in the formal common room, on the top bunk of my bunk bed when my roommate was out of town.
I remember tagging along with her to the library and finding a small room in the basement. She would bend her head studiously to her task, putting her great brain to the service of Biology or Chemistry, while I sat watching her or stroking her long black hair. I had work of my own to do, but not as much as she did; after all, she was a Junior, and I was only a lowly Freshman. While I should have put my own great brain to the service of some Bach counterpoint, instead I sat under the table where Amy worked, nuzzling my face into her crotch. Never shifting her focus, never ceasing her steady reading and note-taking, she would find my pussy with her small foot and wriggle her sock-clad toes against my underwear. I ground myself on her foot and ankle until I couldn’t bear it any longer and she suggested I touch myself until she reached the end of her task. I was never very good at masturbating back then. I’m still not too hot at it now. She tried her best with me, but loved fucking me too much to watch my ineffectual attempts for long. When she fucked me, she always took off her class ring for me to put on, so as to keep it clean, out of the way of my freely flowing wetness. She began conducting experiments on me. I was an endlessly fascinating, endlessly coming specimen. She gave me her ring and checked my wetness immediately then remarked, “You have a Pavlovian response to putting on my ring. I haven’t even touched you and you’re already wet.”
She whispered dirty fantasies in my ear as she made me come. I’ll never forget the time she told me that I was naked on a table in a large room, blind folded and tied down. She told me she was demonstrating the wares (me) to a crowd of interested buyers—gentlemen with glasses of whiskey and cigars. The men were sitting around, watching me, murmuring to each other, then they were coming up and testing my responsiveness. They were patting my flanks and poking my ass, slapping it and observing the resulting wobble of flesh. They were pinching my nipples overly hard to make me gasp and slapping my small breasts, trying to decide whether the lack of size was made up for in sensitivity. They were laughing as one man pressed his cold whiskey glass to the inside of my leg and I yelped. They were examining my mouth, checking the straightness and quality of my teeth, putting their fingers unceremoniously in my mouth and either letting me suck them or pulling at my lips and cheeks, giving me no agency in their perusal of that organ by turns. They were stroking the hair on my head and the hair on my pussy, chuckling at my arousal. One of them covered my mouth and nose to see how I reacted without air while another put his thumb on my slit, spreading the wetness around and up to my clit. Another man was probing my tight asshole, another began rubbing my clit, all of them observing me, watching me, deciding whether or not to buy, listening to my moans and scrutinizing them by their own metrics of pleasure. Laughing when I gasped or whimpered in pain, and at last filling up my wet, weeping cunt with their cocks, one by one, all giving my pussy a try, seeing if I was tight enough for them, if I felt good, some began to try out my mouth and throat, choking me on their giant cocks, others slapped my face with their cocks or gripped my thighs painfully hard. “She likes it, look how wet she is,” they were saying to each other. “The little slut likes it. Listen to her moan.” I was theirs to consume. With my eyes closed, I was there in that stark room, being probed and fucked, although all the time it was Amy, pumping her hand skillfully in and out of my wet pussy, it was Amy, touching my clit just so with her other hand or licking it with her deft tongue or whispering in my ear or covering my mouth and nose, expertly recreating the experience of many hard and examining hands on my body.
Amy cannot know what depths of strange erotic desires she has awoken in me. Who could love me? Who could love my strange fucked up sexual self? Who would walk in this bleak place?
THE STORY OF C – CHAPTER 6
A message from MASTER BERLIN:
“dear american girl living in lichterfelde,
i’m a dominant master in my 50s in n________. i liked your story and wanted to tell you about me.
they want to get out of life. they obey me. they send me photos. we come to depend on each other. then they usually leave because their husbands find out or they aren’t disciplined enough. i have them meet other people under my instructions, and i open doors for them from here in n_________. i have a few subs and am looking for another sub or slave who is willing to do all i ask in exchange for the security of having someone powerful and capable behind her.if you’re interested, i’m happy to chat and see if there’s a fit. if not, i’m also interested in getting to know you. you’re interesting. i want to hear about your two years with your girlfriend.
I myself, a good looking writer, discoverd the penis. I love myself beeing naked and hard. But seeing anothother guy naked, who sees me, was a new experince getting off.I want you to be with me, to suck him, and we both be on you. In you, around you,
Can’t wait to hear from you! Bye,
Your Horny Cupid
A message from XXXLOVRR:
Your legs are wide
There’s nothing more that you can hideThe soft caress
My fingers strong
Send shivers as I stroll alongRestraints are tight
They hold you open
Moans and screams are only spokenYour body writhes
And thrashes so
Body says yes but your head says no
My silver hair
My soft wrinkles
The devil in my eye it twinkles
It’s wrong to want
And wrong to touch
Your pussy screams it yearns so much
You hear it purrr
You feel it shiver
My finger inside teasing come hither
I watch you plead
For me to stop
My fingers draw you to the top
The warmth it builds
Between your legs
Your lips spread wide your pussy begs
To be fulfilled
Every inch, every bit
My thumb pressing against your clit
While fingers thrust
Your hips buck enjoying the ride
Your pussy loving what I do
My thumb rubs hard
Your climax hits
My hands tearing you to bits
It rips right through
From head to toe
you can no longer say no
You want me deep
My cock inside
The pleasure you just cannot hide
I fuck you hard
I fuck you deep
My cum inside is yours to keep”
Although I am a native German speaker (which shouldn’t be that hard to find out from how I write ;)), I’ll write in English, letting you decipher what I meant.
If you want to make yourself a picture of me: I am 28, 1.75 m tall, slender. We’ll exchange pictures if we share interests, I propose.
We are to go our for a day. You almost wanted to object my order to wear sturdy shiny latex boots besides your corset, because you like other shoes much more.
Speaking of me, I chose a shirt, fitting trousers and a pair of black shoes. It is a bit unexciting, I could even be a doctor in this dress. You hand me the remote for the toy that you wear in your underwear.
We drive from Lichterfelde south west, enter Brandenburg, see endless woods and drive through small villages.
After an hour, we enter Beelitz and I park the car in front of a large fence.
You see many buildings in miserable shape behind the fence. I open a gate, you follow me into the courtyard. Never having heart of Beelitz-Heilstätten, you are a bit puzzled.
In contrast to the buildings, the large and uncut trees look beautiful, giving the place a strange charme.
We enter a building and stroll around. A slight breeze of cold air comes through the broken windows to the left of the hallway, sending shivers through your arms and legs. I put my arm around you and rub your beautiful body. There are many doors to the right, each with a small room. We choose room 317. The paint comes off the wall, a long time ago, it was pastel yellow.
You are a slave to the device stuffed inside you, screaming in agony, for minutes.
You know why you are here? You’ve been into much trouble.
THE STORY OF C – CHAPTER 7
Last night I had my first threesome with Vadim and Jessica. My feelings are horribly horribly mixed and confused. I took the S-Bahn to Karow, a suburb just north of Berlin. I got there early and hungry. I killed time in the Netto, buying a toothbrush and looking for condoms (why no condoms Netto? Why?).
Jessica arrived exactly on the hour. She has a slender figure and long blonde hair. The only two features she has that are not completely in line with the Western standard of beauty are her teeth, which are slightly large and uncorrected, and her nose, which is adorably oversized for her delicate, thin face. She has very lovely expressive eyes and an even lovelier personality. Vadim took a few minutes to join us. He is relatively fit, with the smallest beer belly imaginable. His face has begun to show his age: he has hard arrogant lines on his forehead. He has a sort of polished piratical air about him and has short dark hair. Jessica is through and through German. Vadim is Canadian of Russian descent.
Jessica drove us all to their lovely, medium-sized apartment. My first impression was the ordered cleanliness of the apartment. The kitchen looked as though no one lived in it. The little balcony was lined with newly bought and potted flowers (Jessica’s project) and the kitchen was decorated with orchids. We began with pinot grigio and began to talk. Well, Jessica and I began to talk. Vadim would join in occasionally with a poor joke or a generalization, but mostly he worked on his email and went out on the balcony to smoke. I was pleased that this rule was enforced in the house (Jessica’s doing, I believe). We switched to Sekt (and by this time both ladies were slightly tipsy. It’s my habit to drink out of nervousness).
Jessica excused herself briefly to go to the bathroom, upon which Vadim asked, “How are we feeling?” Tipsy as I was, I had no solid answer to the question, other than to defer the decision of how we were feeling to someone else. He then asked in lowered tones, “I have to ask, though it’s personal. Do you shave?”
Having anticipated this question possibly coming up, I was surprised at my own level of surprise, hearing the question. If I weren’t already flushed from the wine, I felt a new rash of heat blister across my face. A bit flustered, I answered that no, I didn’t.
“Would you be willing to?” This was the question for which I wasn’t quite prepared… Was I? Just how much would I hate myself if I sold out my political and personal identity for one night of group sex?
I finally came to the conclusion. “No. It’s political for me. And personal, to be honest.” The next question came gingerly. “Is that a requirement?” I strained to sound nonchalant.
At this moment of course, Jessica returned. We laughed nervously. Perceptive as she is, she knew instantly that something had transpired. We explained, and I repeated my question. It comes out that Jessica is the one with the problem, not Vadim. Vadim doesn’t care what he shoves his dick into, a conclusion I’ve reached after the entire experience. At that moment, I was ready to leave. I would tell myself I had gained acquaintances and that I had had 3 glasses of wine and a glass of Sekt free of charge! It was determined that we could do other things… Jessica didn’t like going down on girls with hair. No problem, we can do something else. We resumed discussing other topics, namely Jessica’s work position.
As I convinced her that asking for a raise was a good idea, Vadim took another smoke. The man smoke like a chimney. I moved my foot aside to give him space when he returned. He took my foot and put it back where it was. A strange mix of panic and excitement rose in my throat. With one hand, he held mine and stroked it in pleasing abstract patterns. I stroked back with my thumb, to signal willingness.
Jessica and I continued to talk about her career as Vadim slid a hand up my stocking-clad leg. I made an effort to concentrate on Jessica’s words as Vadim’s hand passed the top of my thigh-highs. He squeezed my buttocks and investigated my underwear. Pushing it aside, he easily found what he was looking for. He inserted one probing finger into me. Jessica continued to talk about her career. The contrast was excruciating.
Jessica finally paused. At this point, Vadim was slowly fingering me to wetness. “Why don’t you two kiss, already?” Vadim suggested. I gladly took this suggestion, shifting so that my slit was easily accessible to Vadim while I kissed the soft lips of Jessica. We began chastely, like virginal schoolgirls. I deepened the kiss by entangling my fingers in her hair, hands searching for sensitive spots.
Vadim began to finger fuck me in earnest now. I began to moan quietly into Jessica’s mouth. She didn’t seem terribly responsive to me. We all disrobed fairly quickly and before I knew it, Vadim was standing nude before us. “I want you to lick my cock.” We obliged on either sides of him. My hand was still on Jessica’s arm. Vadim’s hand was in my hair. He guided my mouth with his hand, making me take in more and more of his cock, as he began to kiss Jessica. He used his hand at the back of my head to make me bob up and down the length of his cock.
“Let’s go to the bedroom.” We followed him. He lay down, splayed in the middle. “I want C to suck my cock.” I obliged with enthusiasm and little skill. “Lick along the side,” he instructed. He was actually not a bad teacher. What Jessica was doing at this time, I have no idea.
Eventually he tired of this and initiated another position change. “I want to see you make Jessica come.” I licked Jessica’s neatly shaven pussy. Her little stubby blonde hairs were hardy visible. She didn’t taste like much at all. Her clitoris was very small and hidden in a drapery of clitoral hood. Her pussy was dainty as well. I slipped two fingers in, continuing to lick her clit. She seemed to respond well to the internal stimulation.
“See how easy she is?” Vadim said. I didn’t necessarily agree. We had discussed how easily she came earlier that evening. Vadim had laughed as he said it. Jessica looked slightly uncomfortable and hadn’t said anything. My first doubts about the nature of their sexual relationship bloomed. She was hardly wet at all, compared to Amy. And she was very quiet, which unnerved me quite a bit. My normal barometer for how much a woman likes what I’m doing to her operates almost completely on wetness and sound. Vadim lifted my buttocks by the hips and finger-fucked me as my face was buried in his girlfriend’s pussy.
I am not sure when he switched from finger-fucking to actual fucking, but in the space of a few minutes, I was suddenly making noises I had never made before and was quite incapable of continuing to do Jessica’s lovely little pussy justice. I moaned repeatedly and loudly as he fucked me doggy style, not noticing at first the lack of condom.
My hands clenched into fists in the bedspread. Jessica’s hand found mine at one point and I laced my fingers tightly in hers. “Sounds like somebody’s never had a big dick before,” Vadim noted, with laughter in his voice.
I was too far gone at this point to know how to respond other than, “No I haven’t,” spread out in between moans. He slapped my ass once. I wish he would have slapped me more.
Dignity prevents me from asking him to slap me now that I am certain I dislike him. But that comes later.
At this moment in the story, I was lost in pleasure, in the sound and feeling of the slapping of his skin against mine. “Have you come yet?”he asked, as though something was wrong with me.
“No,” I managed.
He told me to roll over on my back. I obeyed and he fucked me that way, telling me to lift my legs up. “Do you feel the difference?”
I barely had the presence to moan “yeah.”
He asked if I liked it. I struggled to form the simple sentence, “It’s good.” He kissed me with his open mouth and soft tongue, which was faintly sweet (from the rum and cokes he had drunk) and smoky (from the tobacco). “Have you ever tasted a man’s come?”
“No.” I was pinned underneath Vadim, pinned to the bed by his weight and his cock.
“Jessica did you hear that, she’s never tasted come.” In the mean time, Jessica masturbated herself quietly, watching. He then gave her a turn.
Unsure of what to do at this point, without direction as I was, I sucked her tits as Vadim fucked her doggy style.
The order becomes confusing to me now, but these things happened: He told me to lick Jessica’s asshole. I have never done this particular sex act before. She had a pert little asshole. I fingered her as I licked it. “Are you fingering her?” asked Vadim.
“Mhm,” I replied through a mouthful of ass.
“Good girl.” He told me to lick his asshole (and to try to put my tongue deeper), he told me I was a good girl for doing what he told me to and rewarded me with his cock again.
My moans were getting louder and higher and shorter as I approached orgasm. “So close,” I began to gasp. I was on the cliff, about to come… then he pulled out of me and stood, jerking off.
“I want you to taste my come. On the floor, on your knees.” I obeyed, feeling my former-approaching orgasm fading. I rested my hands on his hairy, muscled legs. “Are you ready for the hot come?” I could taste pussy on his cock. I thought it might be the taste of Jessica… no, it was my pussy. I could taste myself on him.
He ejaculated into my mouth. Or rather, dribbled. It tasted faintly sour. I didn’t like it. But I swallowed and sucked every last drop from him (and the bastard sighed in appreciation, finally.) “Good job girls,” he said with an air of finality. I kissed Jessica, still on my knees, asking if she could taste his come on my mouth… disappointingly, she couldn’t.
I cuddled with Jessica on the bed while Vadim did something or other in the bathroom. We began to talk again, about music among other things. Vadim called from the bathroom, “Oh by the way C, you’re on your period.” I apologized of course, but the couple made it clear that it was no problem.
Jessica said of Vadim, “he doesn’t care,” which supported my hypothesis that the man didn’t give a damn where he put his penis. “I have that affect sometimes. When you put something in there deep and hard enough.” He grinned. I pretended he hadn’t spoken, so that I didn’t have to process what an asshole he was. There was a slight numbness in my right leg, which I ignored, assuming it would be gone by morning.
I asked to stay over and slept on the couch, denied orgasm, denied dinner, denied post-sex cuddles, denied waking up beside a warm body. After the post-sex glow wore off, I was angry. 1) He didn’t use a condom. 2) I didn’t come. 3) I was hungry. 4) I had to sleep alone on the hard couch. 5) I didn’t think Jessica had actually come either… if she had, it was very quiet. I have a feeling she has never come and he has just been telling her that she has, which makes me even angrier. 6) My mouth was sticky and strange and I wanted a glass of water, but I was too tired to get it and didn’t know where the glasses were. 7) I sensed Vadim’s eyes on my belly and my stretch marks. This man does not make me feel good except for when his cock is inside me.
I then thought suddenly of Amy and almost cried I missed her so terribly. With Amy, I would have come, eaten, cuddled, woken up beside her and had a morning fuck. With Amy, I wouldn’t have been the only loud one. With Amy, I would have not felt too weird to get a glass of water. With Amy, I could have asked about the strange numbness in my leg, and she would have had something useful to say about it. I finally drifted off into fitful sleep and dreamed that Vadim was the villain from whom I was trying to save Jessica. I woke up often. I didn’t sleep well. When morning dawned and we had breakfast together, I was ready to get out of there.
I am afraid I might be pregnant. I inserted a nuvaring today, to make myself feel better, and comfort myself with the thought that at least he didn’t come inside me, but nonetheless, I do not want to repeat this experience, and there is a distinct possibility that I have a fertilized egg inside me right now. I wish I could befriend Jessica and convince her to leave this selfish arrogant prick who doesn’t care enough about making women come and makes racial jokes. I wish I could give her a real orgasm–a gift from one woman to another. This doesn’t seem possible.
I won’t let this put me off of my study of sex. There’s more to learn, more dicks to know, more to experience. Always.
THE STORY OF C – CHAPTER 8
I met Marco at Hermannplatz in Neukölln for lunch. I was late, but he didn’t seem to mind. I wore my dress that has no back (lucky), my jeans jacket (also lucky), and thigh high tights (also also lucky). We went to a euro-bistro and both got salads. Arugula for me, Saisonsalat for him. He has a sort of pleasant accented English. He sounds very slightly British and very vaguely German and not at all American. He is well built, with some muscles, yet also lean. He wore a v-neck and I could see the chest hair peeking through. His glasses have a medium-thick dark rim and his hair is receding just a little bit. We discussed any number of topics, touching upon music, being introverted, our histories, Berlin in the winter, Berlin in the summer, the German word Schadenfreude, his job. We never suffered for lack of conversation. We chatted, taking cappuccinos as he smoked a cigarette. It began to rain very lightly, which we took as our cue to go.
Then the moment of decision. We began discussing sex, my craigslist ad, the appalling and ever-climbing 166 responses I received, the nature of those responses, among other things. I blurted out awkwardly that I don’t shave. He admitted that he found this to be positive. After a moment of indecision, we went up to his apartment, a nice clean wood-floored flat with enough mess to make me comfortable in the knowledge that he was not a clean freak. After we both used the bathroom, the games began. I was quivering ever so slightly out of nervousness, waiting for him to take control of the situation.
He kissed me, mouth open and warm, his beard bristling my lips pleasantly. His tongue had a sort of softness and roughness that seemed new to me. He seemed pleased by my responsiveness, by how quickly my hands found his hair and pulled. He also seemed pleased that my dress had no back and that I was bra-less. The moaning began when his hand found my nipple. The other hand found its way to the sensitive spot of skin between the end of my spine and my ass. I felt I had to be active, so I worked on taking off his shirt while he worked on my dress. He clamped his mouth on my breast and I gasped. One hand wandered below to cup my pussy. I felt like putty in his hands. I wriggled one finger beneath the waist band of his pants. He took them off and I noticed the bulge in his underwear, moving my attentions to it. Unsure of what to do, I stroked it lightly on the outside of the cloth, as I would do to a woman’s pussy through her underwear. He gently tugged down my underwear for better access, beginning to finger me.
Distracted, I continued my ministrations to his clothed penis, biting his neck, kissing, my other hand wandering about his back. He took off his underwear and his erection sprung free. I imagine that my eyes widened–there is something always still very new for me about the unleashing of an erection. I am never sure what to do with it, other than stare at it. I wrapped my hand around the shaft and began to play with the skin, moving my hand up and down the length. He feed me his hand wet with my juices, then returned to finger fucking me in earnest.
He gestured with a turn of the head that we go to the bedroom and I followed, at first hand in hand, and then running my hand lightly down his back. He laid down. “You know, you do have to tell me what to do…” I said with a slight smile, “because I’m submissive and a bit inexperienced.” He smiled and pulled me down on top of him to kiss.
“Turn around,” he said. I obeyed and moaned all the more as he licked me, thrusting the wet length of his tongue inside me. His hand entangled in my hair, pushing my face into the mattress. He serviced me in different ways for a while, working me into wetness, then gave me the length of his (large) penis to suck on. I tried my best to breathe through my nose and keep a steady rhythm, but he was so large that I could not fit the length of him in my mouth.
He guided my head in a bobbing motion, making me take him deeper, though I gagged. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I continued to suck him, taking frequent breaks to breathe and to relax my gag reflex. At one point, I stopped during one of my breaks to ask him shyly and earnestly, “Am I doing alright?”
He smiled, may have said yes, pulled me in for a kiss. I returned to my ministrations. My saliva began to coat the head of his penis, slipping down over my chin as well. I kept choking on him. “It’s very big,” I once paused to explain. As I sucked him, he resumed fingering me, sometimes stopping to slap my pussy or tweak a nipple.
After what seemed an eternity, he rolled over to get the condom. I sat up to watch him put it on, curious to see protected sex in action, having never watched a man put a condom on before. It was a tight squeeze in the latex. He gently nudged my legs apart and set himself up to penetrate me. At first, there was a moment of awkwardness, during which he muttered (perhaps more to himself than to me): “Ich hasse Kondom.” But by some magical combination of angles, force, and natural lubrication, the awkwardness disappeared and suddenly I was vaguely conscious of making sounds I had never made before, incapable of opening my eyes, my hands balled into fists. He did all of the work and wielded all of the control, varying speed and intensity. He choked me once or twice and put his hands possessively around my head. My toes began to curl and my voice climbed.
We switched to doggy style and he stopped either because a) I was bleeding, or b) he came, or c) both. I am not sure what combination of things caused him to stop, but despite my lack of explosive climax, I was feeling very satisfied indeed. I trotted off to the bathroom to put on underwear and a tampon and then lay down with my head on his hairy chest and my arms draped around him. His heart beat heavily and his breathing was labored as well.
“Feedback?” I asked, turning my head to look at him.
“After I’ve caught my breath,” he admitted (perhaps with some chagrin).”I’ve got to stop smoking,” he joked.
“Because that’s the only reason to stop smoking,” I joked back. He laughed. We spoke occasionally, but mostly lay quietly beside each other. “You were much better than the last guy,” I said after a long pause. “He was a dick.” I revised. “He was a bad person with a big dick. You are a good person with a big dick. I think.”
He laughed a little and seemed truly pleased with the praise. “That’s made my day!” he said.
We talked a bit more, a little about German, and the idea of speaking it in the bedroom. I agreed. “But not now,” I specified. His phone rang. We spoke a little bit more on his balcony as he smoked a cigarette, and then we parted ways so he could prepare for his gig.
I most definitely hope to do this again.
After I left, I bought cilantro at the market at Hermannplatz. The man selling it to me asked if I wanted to go get some drinks. I declined politely, reveling in this new feeling of sexual power.