My Ex-Files Ch. 04: The Older Man

Don't even need to change the name this time, I don't think I ever knew what it was.

I guess he must have told me at the time but I would have forgotten it by the next morning, never mind all these years later.

I was a student, in my late teens, working behind a bar to pay the bills.

If you've ever tried to chat up a barmaid you should know it is a lost cause. By the time we get to our second shift we've got bored of better lines than you could ever dream up, and if you want to know what we're doing when our shift finishes, the answer is going home alone to a large glass, a soak in the bath and a catch up on the soap operas.

The man in the sexy suit didn't really try to chat me up. Or if he did it was so quick and effortless I barely noticed. Maybe he didn't need to. I'd cleared the bar, sprayed down the tables, swept the floor and the manager sent me off with a few paltry pounds as my share of the tips jar. About enough to buy a packet of cigarettes, which were still needed back then as I was still a filthy smoker (I'm much healthier these days, even if still filthy haha.)

The man in the suit was standing just outside the side door, smoking and checking his phone. He was much older than me, probably in his forties. He wasn't George Clooney but he had the effortless confidence of a man who didn't have to try too hard. So different to the boys my age with all their - admittedly adorable - nerves and bluster. I asked if he had a spare and he casually, wordlessly flipped the lid on a packet of Silk Cut and let me take one, then he clicked his lighter and lit me. I'd barely taken a single drag before a minicab turned up. He threw his own cig to the floor and trod it out.

"I've got a bottle of wine and a bag of weed at my flat if you're not busy?"

This was the point where I say "thanks but I just want to get home." I would always say "thanks, but I just want to get home." I wasn't the type to say anything else. I wasn't that type of girl. Really. No one was more surprised than me to hear me say the words "is it far?"

The answer was no. It was a mile or so away and closer to my own flat than the bar was. I felt a galloping rush of excitement as I said the words "OK then," threw my cigarette to the floor, and got in the cab.

I knew there and then I was going to fuck him. I wasn't going to play hard to get. I wouldn't need to be persuaded or seduced. My imagination was already running through everything we would be doing together. We chatted aimlessly on the journey, I can't remember what he was saying, my mind was just racing with anticipation for what was about to happen.

His flat was as neat, tidy and sharp as his suit. Minimalist. Looking back now, I guess it was the flat of a recently divorced man, one who had started life over with a few hundred quid at IKEA. I didn't pay much attention at the time.

I've forgotten the small talk and preliminaries. I'm guessing there weren't many. Within minutes we were kissing on the couch and his hand was pressing through the buttons of my blouse. I was a lot younger and slimmer then but even at age 19 I was blessed with large, mature breasts and any self-restraint dissolved as he cupped my tits in the palm of his hands and then swiftly extricated me from my bra.

A lot of what happened in the next hour or so was a blur of adrenaline, passion and pure lust. But I will never forget that this handsome older man stripped me naked in his living room while he was still fully dressed. It aroused something primal in me, I felt more naked than was natural, as if he had removed an extra layer of protection, made me feel like some kind of sex slave from an erotic novel, and as he led me through his flat to his bed I remember thinking how strong he looked in his suit, how powerful he was, I grabbed at his lapels and pulled him towards me, kissing him hungrily, my bare skin pressed against his silk shirt.

Then he pushed me backwards and I fell onto his bed, looking up at him, him staring down on my helpless naked body. That was when he slowly removed his jacket and laid it carefully over a chair then more roughly tore off his shirt, standing topless, his chest hairier than on any man I had been with before, it made me want to run my fingers all over his chest. I would have the chance for that later.

For now, he lowered himself to his knees on the floor at the end of the bed and kissed the inside of my thigh. Slowly he kissed and licked his way upwards until I felt his hot breath on my tender, already swollen young pussy, pecking delicately on my clitoris then burying his tongue in my cunt.

Jesus it was amazing. I'd had a few boyfriends by this age and a couple of them had got pretty good at giving me oral, or so I thought, but this was another level. He seemed to know every fold of my labia, the precise points that would make my legs tremble and my heart leap. He ran the tip of his tongue up and down the tiny valleys around my clit, giving me sensations I never knew possible. He would kiss me, lick me, tease me almost to the point of orgasm and then just as I was about to scream he would ease off, leaving me hanging there, stopping time, easing off and then just as I began to whimper in disappointment he would up the pressure again, bringing me back until an orgasm started to build somewhere deep in my womb and then spread like a wildfire through my body. When finally he let me cum it took me over slowly, ecstatically, building to a climax I never knew possible then kept me there, one long lingering orgasm stretching through time until I felt I would black out through sheer exhausted pleasure.

As I lay there panting, I watched him stand up and step out of his trousers and shorts. His cock was long and slender, perfectly straight, standing upright the whole height of his belly. He knelt, straddling my waist, and placed his strong hands on my big soft bare tits, squeezing them firmly but gently, as if squeezing out the final spasms from my orgasm.

At that age I had yet to fully discover the many joys of sucking cock. I still thought it a bit yucky, I was terrified guys would cum in my mouth (more fool me) and wasn't very confident in my skills. But I knew that this was one I had to wrap my lips around, had to suck. I wanted to feel it in my mouth, I wanted the control of his body. I took his cock in my hands and pulled it towards my mouth.

He was a talker. Smooth, quiet, but just assertive enough to make me feel like a sex goddess. "Oh yes, just like that, hmmmm that's it baby, yeah, suck it like that" He leaned forward, resting his weight on his hands on the pillow, either side of my head, letting him push slightly into my mouth. I had my hands wrapped around his shaft which meant he couldn't really push into my throat, but I loved the feel of him trying, his cock sliding through the grip of my fist and slipping up and down over my tongue. I began to worry about the cum thing, I didn't want to choke, didn't want to drown but at the same time, this was the moment that I knew I wanted to feel him cum in my mouth, I wanted to suck him all the way to heaven, hell and back again. If he had exploded into my mouth at that very moment it would have swallowed every drop.

But it was not to be. He had brought me here to fuck me. I had let him bring me here to fuck me. And neither of us were going to let it pass.

He slid his cock out of from between my lips and sat back between my legs. I looked down at him stroking his hard cock once or twice and sliding on a condom, then gasped as he pressed the hard head firmly against my clitoris, his shaft nestling along the folds of my labia. With one smooth expert move he pressed the tip of his cock into the entrance of my cunt and pushed his whole length into me. I gasped as he filled me up.

I will be honest, everything else is a blur. I can picture him fucking me while kneeling between my legs, his knees folded beneath my thighs. I know he must have rolled me over and taken me from behind because I remember lying on my belly, feeling his cock deep inside me, while his full weight pressed me down against the bed. I remember he had an abstract art print in a frame above his bed, because at one point I was leaning with my hands either side of it, staring at it and seeing my own face reflected in the glass while he pounded into me hard from behind. I don't know how many times he made me cum, it all sort of blended into one extended orgasmic trip.

I do, however, recall how he finished. As he got closer and closer to his own orgasm he stopped thrusting and said to me "I can't cum with a condom on, do you mind if I finish with my hands?" He could have asked me to do anything by that point and I would have gasped with pleasure, and I didn't fully appreciate what he was asking me to do.

As I lay on my back, naked and gasping for breath, glistening in my own sweat and his, he knelt alongside me with his cock hard in his hand, gazing down at me and jerking furiously on his cock. I suppose I should probably have asked him if he wanted me to help of something like that, but all I did was press my own fingers to my pussy and watch him masturbate over me, just occasionally grasping at my tits with his left hand. I can picture him as he threw his head back and made a grunting noise the likes of which I had never heard before, almost a roar, then he stared at me with a kind of furious a****l aggression in his eyes and growled "I'mmmmm cummmmmmmmmmming..." as his cock started to spurt thick white fountains of cum, straight high up in the air then landing with a splash on my belly, my tits, a few flecks on my cheek, it was spraying everywhere. I remember feeling surprised that it didn't feel cold as it hit my skin, instead it was smooth and at body temperature, I could see it everywhere but I couldn't feel it. Not until I touched it with my fingertips and felt is slippery sliding against my skin, as I rubbed it into my nipples, my face, my neck. When he'd finished spurting he pushed his cock towards my mouth and I knew exactly what he wanted me to do, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do to him. I took his cock deep in my mouth and sucked slow, hard and strong, tasting the sour saltiness as a final few drops were cajoled out of his balls and in to my mouth and he moaned as I kept sucking him firmly until his cock eventually began to soften between my lips and he fell back, spent.

In the 20 years or so since that night, I've had nights where I've been more of a shameless slut. I've had evenings that were kinkier, more adventurous, more extreme. I've had a lot of sex that was much more loving, much more emotionally rewarding. But I'm not sure I've ever had a casual lay that was such a straightforwardly, unforgettably fantastic fuck.

Wherever you are now, Mr Handsome Man, you are probably in your 60s now. Maybe remarried, or with a whole new trophy girlfriend, who knows. Whoever that woman is, I bet she has a smile on your face. And I want you to know, I might have forgotten your name, but I have never forgotten that night. Thanks for the cigarette.