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I need his cock, perhaps more than I’ve needed anything recently. My fingers fumble at his belt. I don’t waste time on cursing the delay. I force myself to take a deep breath and focus on slowing the pounding of my heart. I press my mouth to the front of his pants and blow my hot breath through the thin linen to distract him. When I reach for his belt again my hands still tremble but they’re capable of unfastening his belt buckle.


I’d enter the club with no real expectation of satisfying the lust that had been building for weeks now. The man I had been sure was the “one” had turned out to be the “one” for the woman he had neglected to mention he was married to. There is no drearier place to be depressed and, as I’d tried to convince myself, heartbroken, than Milwaukee in January. I had plenty of vacation time. I took a week of it and search the internet for a cheap hotel room some place warm. I’d packed my bag and a few hours later, with surprisingly few airline-induced irritations, I stepped off the plane in St. Maarten. There’d been a bit of a wait at the rental car counter but the hotel wasn’t too far away. I’d been checked in and was on the beach sipping my first martini before the sun went down last night.

I’d spent today, back on the beach, reviewing the romantic disasters of the past two-and-a-half years. Unfortunately, the one constant in all of them had been me. It hadn’t matter if I’d met the guy at work, one, or online, two, the result had been the same. Thank God, I’d only fallen for one married asshole’s bullshit. I tried to push it all away but not even the sun, water and a few more martinis proved to be enough to distract me from the utter desolation that was my love life. It was while lying there, telling myself no more martinis before dinner, that I decided what I needed to do was to forget romance, tell romance to fuck off, to kiss my ass and die. What I needed was some dick and to get laid.

That’s how I ended up at the club.


I’d taken a seat at the bar and ordered a martini. I almost left when the bartender, extremely attractive with amazingly blue eyes, asked if I wanted gin or vodka. A martini is made with gin, not vodka or apple or chocolate; it’s made with gin and a bit of vermouth and olives. The blue eyes and dazzlingly smile undid my irritation at the question and I simply ordered a gin martini made with a local gin I was assured I’d love. It came and I sipped it, turned now toward the dance floor. I rarely dance. It occurred to me as I munched on the last olive that that fact was probably a large part of why I rarely went to clubs.

I ordered the tuna poke and another martini and went back to wondering how it was that some people could move their bodies and not look like they were having a seizure and others of us were reduced to sitting on the sidelines pondering such mysteries.

“How’s the poke? More importantly, how’s the martini?”

I had to swivel to look at my questioner. He appeared to be roughly my age. His hair was cropped short and based on his four- or five-day growth of beard, dark. His eyes where hazel. He wore the loose shirt and linen pants as if they were his standard uniform. He smiled at zeytinburnu escort my frank appraising stare.

“Martini is quite good and the poke, excellent.”

“Not to be rude but I’m very picky about my martini’s, might I try a sip of yours?”

I slide the glass toward him. He picked it up and took a sip, watching my eyes the entire time. I stared back, doing my best to give nothing away, though my heart rate had already kicked up a notch. I was out of practice, not that I’d ever been very good when it came to the bar scene, which explains the online dating fiascos. I reminded myself that it would be hard for this to go any worse than those encounters and that it would behoove me to fucking relax.

He took another sip and motioned to the bartender. “Two more martinis and another poke, please.” He turned to me. “You’re right. The martini is good. I’ll trust you on the poke.” He smiled. “You’ve passed the first test.”

“I didn’t realize this was an examination,” I retorted.

“Isn’t every interaction between people an examination?”

I shrugged one shoulder. “That’s a somewhat dreary view, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. It’s simply practical.” His smile widened. “Let’s flip the question around. If I had been sitting here, drinking, say a daiquiri with an umbrella in it, would you have talked to me?”

“Probably not,” I admitted. “On the other hand, I might not have spoken regardless of what you were drinking.”

“That’s harsh. Am I that unattractive to you?”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant,” I stammered, feeling more inept by the second. “No, you are exceedingly attractive. I meant I tend to be too introverted to approach men at bars.”

“Whew, I’m glad you don’t find me hideous,” he smiled again. “I must say, you don’t strike me as terribly inhibited.”

I drained the last my martini and waved the glass at him.

“Ah, so if I wish to have my way with you I should ply you with alcohol?”

“I can’t see how that would hurt, unless you overdo it.” I gave him what I hoped was a frank look. “I already admitted I find you attractive. What makes you assume I need more to drink before you can have your way with me?”

“Interesting,” he purred. “However, it would be a shame to waste good tuna and good martinis. Shall we finish our drinks before retiring to some place more comfortable? Are you staying here?”

Things had been moving far faster than I’d anticipated. I nodded. He smiled. “Me too, how convenient.”

Our drinks arrived. He picked up his glass for a toast. As he leaned toward me he put his hand on my leg. We touched glasses. I swiveled my bar stool to face him, back was to the dance floor now. I put my hand on his leg and drank.

We chitchatted about meaningless things as we sipped our drinks and ate. I was happy to see the bulge in his pants grow as I’d rubbed his leg. By the time he’d swallowed the last of his martini I was rubbing the inside of his thigh and the back of my hand was brushing against his bulge.

His hand was working its own magic, kneading and stroking my leg. He asked the bartender to put everything on his tab and I acquiesced.

We had aksaray escort the elevator to ourselves. The doors had barely closed before we were kissing. He tasted of gin and olives. He wasn’t wearing cologne and I gave him an extra point in his favor. I caressed and squeezed the hardness in his pants and he moaned into my mouth. One of his hands kneaded my butt, the other was between my shoulders pulling him close. Unfortunately, the resort only had four floors and the elevator ride was all too brief.

We stumbled down the wall, still clinging to each other and kissing frantically. He stopped in front of the double doors of a suite and reached toward his pocket.

That’s when desire transformed into desperate need. I need his cock and I needed it right then, at that moment.

That is how I came to be on my knees in a hotel hallway, pawing at his belt.

Once I have the buckle free, I unbutton the top of his pants and unzipped them. He’s wearing white bikini briefs. The wet spot on the front is large enough that I can see his cock head. It’s beautiful. I pull down the top of his underwear and free his manhood. It stands straight up, proud and bold.

He’s uncut. I wrap the fingers of one hand around his cock and squeezed. I pull his foreskin forward. A large clear drop of pre-cum glistens in the dim light of the hallway. I touch it with the tip of my tongue as I slide his foreskin back. I envelope the head of his cock with my lips, continuing to play with his slit with my tongue. He rewards me with a low moan that rumbles through his chest and belly. I stroke him with my hand, milking the nectar of his excitement onto my eager tongue.

“Jesus, suck my dick, please.”

His moaned request sounds sincere and is aligned with my own desires, so that’s what I do.

His cock is nice-sized but not the biggest I’ve seen or sucked. I want to impress him. I take the length down my throat in one slow steady movement. I press my nose into his trimmed pubes and shake my head back and forth, breathing through my nose. I hold him there for several long seconds and then, just as slowly, slip my mouth off his cock, sucking softly. My tongue is pressed firmly against the soft undershaft. I follow with my hand and I’m reward with another dollop of pre-cum and another rumbling moan I fear will vibrate the building.

I slide my lips down the side of his cock then back up. At the head, I circle the crown with my tongue before swaddling his cock with my tongue and sliding my head back down, stopping when my cheek rests against his belly.

I tilt my head and nuzzle his right ball. I flick it with the tip of my tongue and then suck it into my mouth. I suck and pull until I feel him stiffen. I let his nut fall from my mouth and reverse the maneuver, sliding my lips up this side, tonguing the crown and back down to play with his left nut.

I stroke him as I suck his balls, one then the other. His balls are too big to get both in my mouth. I keep stroking and licking and teasing. I’m desperate for cum; I want him as excited as possible to maximize his output when he finally does cum.

He reaches down, bending slightly and plays ataköy escort with my nipples through my shirt.

I lick my way back to the head and take him in my mouth. I deep throat him again, pulling him into my mouth with both hands on his bare ass. His briefs are stuck, mid-thigh, but his pants have fallen into a puddle around his ankles.

I move my head but only a little, no more than an inch or two, letting my throat caress the head of his cock.

Looking back, I think that is when his need grew as desperate as mine. His hands go to my head. He holds it and thrusts into my mouth.

Let me be clear, I have no objection to this. I quite enjoy getting a man to a point where he loses control. That’s a dangerous thing, especially with a new acquaintance. I’m confident in my ability to extricate myself, should try to take things to a place I have no wish to go. So, I sit back, massage his ass and let him fuck my mouth like a cunt, waiting for the cum I’m so desperate to have.

Despite his excitement, he does his best to be a gentleman. He never slams so hard against the back of my throat that I gag. He’s vigorous, intense but still controlled, if that makes any sense.

When he pulls out of my mouth I’m surprised. At first, I think he’s giving me a chance to say if I don’t want him to cum in my mouth, which I very desperately do want him to do.

He grabs his cock and points it at my face just as the first creamy rope erupts from his cock. He misses my eye but I feel his hot cum on my forehead and cheek. I struggle to free my head from his remaining hand. I get my mouth around his cock head and hold him there with my hands on his ass.

He continues to stroke his cock. My mouth fills with his seed. I hold it until he’s finished. I don’t swallow until he pulls his cock out of my mouth. I wipe my cheek with one finger and suck it clean.

He pulls his briefs up, then his pants. He zips, buttons and fastens his belt. He smiles at me and then walks down the hall to the elevator, gets in and closes the door.

I kneel there, cum in my hair and on the front of my clothes wondering if this was his room or whether he was staying at the hotel at all.

What I wonder about most is should I go to my room or back to the club? If the latter, should I clean up first? There’s something exciting about the idea of returning to the club with cum in my hair and clothes. I had decided I would give romance a rest. I wanted sex. He’d provided it. Not as much as I’d wanted but, search as I might, I find no resentment or angry towards him.

I stand up and start for the elevator, still not sure if I’ll hit the button for my floor or the one for the lobby and the club.


Author’s note:

I wasn’t trying to be clever with this story. I was in the mood to write a quick little story but I ended up turning it into a bit of an experiment. I’d love your comments on the following:

Did you think the narrator was a woman or a man?

If you assumed it was a man? Why? Because I’ve written gay stories in the past?

If you assumed a woman? Why? Because it wasn’t in the “Gay Male” category? I understand the need to categorize in order to help readers navigate but not everything fits neatly. Wouldn’t this have still been an “Erotic Encounter” even if it was between two men? What about two women?

If anyone is interested, the original draft was narrated by a woman.

Thanks for reading.


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