Story: Early Pearly Girly’s Shame

17 Feb

He was my ex-boyfriend–it would take longer than he lasted in bed for me to list the reasons why. That one, his prematurity, his hastiness, that was enough. We tried lots of things, from extreme drunkenness to super-thick condoms to the desperate occasion when I tried to seduce him wearing a Sharon Osborne facemask. He couldn’t get it up for giggling until I took it off, and he came over my tits.

Our third night together, I tried to make us the four times a night couple. Sounds good, doesn’t it? The first time went as expected; the second time he at least managed three thrusts; the third time he was too soft to squeeze it into me and yet still came on my leg as he tried to stiffen it up. The fourth time, he begged me to stop.

It wasn’t as though he was a bad lover in other ways. I have never been licked, sucked and rimmed as well by any man. His massages were exquisite, although several were interrupted by an unexpected happy finish. He was compensating, and it was adequate compensation for a time. There was just something about him, his twinkly eyes perhaps, that made my knees give way.

Yet the lack of hot, hard cock doomed our love affair to its own premature conclusion. We argued about something, politics I expect, and I brought up his dysfunctioning penis in a stupid attempt to win. I knew from his face there was no way back from that, and I ended it the next day, before he had the chance. The guilt from his bewildered, crushed expression was assuaged by a handsome, priapic Canadian colleague who was in town until Christmas when he had to return to his very self-satisfied wife. After a week of hotel-room debauchery, I wore a similar expression.

It was inevitable, given our overlapping circles of friends, that I would see him at New Year’s Eve. There was a house party, offers of drugs and cheap champagne, loud music and a glamour-tinged promise of escape from the usual morass of overpriced club nights with under-dressed slappers and belagered and becidered chavs.

He was nerveless when we spoke, exchanging pointless news as if I was his best friend’s date. His coolness made me hot, reminding me what a decent man he was, and how unfair I had been to him. Two other guys were after me that night, both of them potentials–one was Timorese, the other rumoured to possess a Prince Albert piercing–but my curiosity was smothered by an aching lust for my ex’s cock.

I think I would have withstood the urge had I not gone up to the ‘disco room’ at 11.45pm, ready to swig and snog my way into the New Year. He was standing behind the DJ turntables, one ear pressed to a headphone muff, concentrating intently, and using one delicate finger to adjust the records.

If I could have ripped off his trousers and straddled him there and then, I would have done. As it was, I had to watch as my knickers got damper and damper, watching that finger, those eyes, the furrowed eyebrows and the way he chewed his mouth without realising it.

He was kicked off by the real DJ five minutes before midnight and he seemed slightly stunned, if pleased with himself, to watch everyone in the room dancing. I pulled my dress down in an attempt to deepen the V of my cleavage, and circled round to stand slightly behind him. He was looking at the DJ, and then turned round and noticed me.

“Oh, hi.” He looked pleased to see me for a moment, and then his face fell.

Guilt cascaded over me like sour champagne. I stood on tiptoes to yell into his ear.

“I’m really sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m really sorry.” He looked puzzled. “I was such a bitch to you. I’m really sorry.”

He considered my apology for a moment, and then shrugged.

“Yes. You were.” He smiled though.

We stood listening to the music. He opened his mouth, hesitated and then closed it again.

“I’d like to make it up to you,” I yelled.

“How?”

“Come with me.”

I picked up his hand and led him onto the dancefloor, but he let my hand slip as the music fell away.

The DJ shouted to the room. “Right guys, countdown coming up.”

We chanted in the New Year and suddenly the room was full of happy people, kissing each other. The Timorese hunk gave me a squeeze, followed closely by Prince Albert, who pressed his cock against my tummy through his jeans, and confirmed the rumour. I accepted the kisses and extracted myself to see if I could see my ex.

He was wandering out of the room. With any luck, it was jealousy. I chased after him. “Hey!”

He stopped and waited for me at the top of the stairs. “I still want to apologise properly.”

“Look, Mehry, if you feel you have to make some sort of speech, just save it.”

I ignored him and grabbed his hand and led him along the hallway and into a bedroom. It was the designated cloakroom and the full-length mirror had been used for last-minute wardrobe checks and make-up touch-ups, but it was quite empty now. It had a bathroom en suite, and I led him in there.

“It’s okay Mehry, honestly,” he said. “I accept your apology.”

I touched a finger to his lips and sank to my knees, keeping my eyes on his. I had to look down to fumble with his zip and pulled it down on the third attempt. I reached inside with my hand. I knew from experience that it would be over within a few seconds and I didn’t want to get come in the wrong places. My tight blue satin dress would not provide much camouflage for semen, especially as there was an ultraviolet light on the dancefloor.

My gaze locked onto his face. There was no trace of surprise, if there had ever been. Instead, he had a transported look about him, a kind of otherness that was unfamiliar. His cock was not quite hard, but I took it into my mouth, and waited for the explosion.

It didn’t come, not straight away, and I began and suck and lick, holding onto it. I heard him begin to breathe more heavily, and I moaned in response, and anticipation. Still there was nothing, other than obvious pleasure being taken. It occurred to me that perhaps he had some new trick to delay, and I seized my opportunity. I stood up and leaned against the sink, lifting up the hem of my dress and pulling my knickers to my knees.

“Fuck me.”

He seemed to hesitate, and then grabbed his dick and guided it up into my soaking wet cunt. I gasped. It had been such a long time. I had never felt him inside me before, and it was as if we had never split up. My unfulfilled desire was slaked, and a flood of emotion ran through me. It was like an orgasm, except the tingliness was different. I didn’t have to wait long for the real thing. His thrusts were harder and harder, and his balls banged against my clitoris, and I clung onto the sink as my knees seemed to give way. He gripped me round the waist to hold me up and fucked me harder and harder and I could only hope that the music would drown out my wails of ecstasy.

Eventually, he let go of me and I slumped to the floor, first onto my knees, and then supporting myself on one hand and finally lying down on the tiled floor as I tried to recover. He stood above me, legs astride, needing no support. He looked at me, expressionless, as he tidied away his cock and zipped up his trousers.

“That was wonderful,” I said, still rushing with pleasure, feeling my toes as a wave of warmth hit them. “You were sublime.”

He turned around, then turned back again and began to wash his hands. I still couldn’t move properly. “Why could we never do that before?” I could see a future again, one where he finally moved into my flat, and I could make him pancakes for breakfast and we would fuck til lunchtime.

He patted his face down with his wet hands and then dried them on the towel above me. A few drops of water splattered onto my face.

“Shall we go back out?” I was in no mood to move, but I struggled up until I was kneeling on the floor in front of him.

“I might just go.”

His reply confused me. “Where are we going?” I asked.

Finally he looked at me, directly. Coldly.

“Who said anything about ‘we’?”

I was crushed, humiliated. It had been the best sex we had ever had. Couldn’t he see that? Didn’t he value anything about our friendship, the closeness we had together?

“You want to know why that happened? I’ll tell you why.” He paused and looked upward. “It’s because I feel nothing. Nothing for you, anyway. Before, when I was in love with you–” he looked down into my eyes and then away again, embarrassed “–I couldn’t contain my excitement at the thought of being with you. I was absolutely in love with you, Mehry. You must have known that.” I shook my head, lying. “You broke my heart and then you smashed it up.”

He dried his hands on the towel again, and took a step towards the door. I stayed on my knees, unable to move, the ecstasy curdling inside me.

“You know what it was like, just now.” He shook his head, and met my gaze again. “I’d dreamed of making love to you again. It consumed my fantasies. I’ve lain awake at night, wanking about you, about how you might apologise, and beg me to take you back.”

“Do I need to beg?” I shuffled forward. “I’ll beg, I’m not too proud, I know I’ve been–”

“And then now, when we were… when we were fucking.” He spat the word. “It was nothing like… it was easy to hold on. I wasn’t even trying to. It was like…” He looked away for a moment, and then stared deep into my eyes.

“It was like fucking a whore.”

He turned around, opened the door, and was gone, and I was left, slumped on the floor, weeping.

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One Response to “Story: Early Pearly Girly’s Shame”

  1. mehryinett February 18, 2011 at 10:00 am #

    By the way, I know I put my name in this, but this isn’t me. Although I do know her…

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