Our relationship should never have been. However, there always was something that hinted that we were not in the traditional roles society might have placed him in. He was of my mother’s generation, her friend, her confidant but they drifted apart. About two years later he came looking for her, but by then she had left the country and was living abroad. We got together for old time’s sake.
He was lonely.
I was lonely.
It just happened. A relationship, sort of. It lasted a couple of months, but it taught me a lot about myself. It was the first time ever that I was allowed to let my inner slut out, that I could be myself, that I could indulge in sex and sexiness as much as I wanted. We had quite a lot of sexual encounters, but there are only a couple I can really remember. One of those was when we were in a cabin at the seaside with friends. Those friends were out for a walk on the beach while we found ourselves together in a bunk bed.
I was trapped between his body and the wall – my body naked, my legs spread wide. His hand was between my legs, cupping my sex, softly caressing my labia, slipping between them and dipping in my wetness. He pushed one, two, three fingers in me, pulled them out and rubbed my clitoris. I wanted more. I spread my legs even wider, giving as much access as he was willing to take; inviting him to take it all. He looked at my face, kissed me, looked at my breasts and licked my nipples. He left my cunt empty and needy as cupped first one, then the other breast and squeezed. I arched my back, wanting him to let go of my breasts but at the same time pushing them into his hand because of the pleasure his touch brought me.
His hand found my wetness again. There as no modesty in the way I had my legs spread. I needed him to touch me. Needed it. Craved it. Again he pushed deep inside me and slowly fucked me with his fingers. When he pulled out he circled my clitoris and soon an orgasm washed through me. He moved away from those nerve ending, back to the deeper wetness and finger-fucked me again, but just not long enough for me to feel any kind of climax building. It changed the moment he touched my clitoris again.
There came a point where I was satisfied and would gladly have rolled over for a nap, but he was not done with me yet. He kept on going and one orgasm after the other rushed through my body.
Then there came a point where I wanted more. Each time I climaxed, I pushed my cunt against his hand, urging him to finger me before he rubbed my clitoris. The more climaxes I had, the more I wanted. One finger was not enough inside me. I wanted three. Softly touching my clitoris did nothing for me. He had to push down hard. I wanted to spread my legs more but they were spread as far as they could go. I almost took over the his rhythm as I humped my hips to fuck his fingers.
I also got tired and sort of withdrew into myself. Going with the motions. He must have seen this as one more orgasm followed and then he stopped. He covered me with a duvet and pulled me close to his chest. I was almost drifting off to sleep when he spoke.
“I kept track of your orgasms.”
I didn’t comprehend what he tried to say.
“I counted them,” he spoke again.
I was a bit more awake then.
“How many?” I asked.
Just like he was the first man ever to allow my inner slut to come out to play, he was the first man who have counted my orgasms. Others have tried to do so too, but always lost track of the number, except for Master T. He did it once or twice, counting my orgasms, but nowadays I am the one who has to count. His orders and I don’t mind.
When I hear ’21’ I will always think of two things: the fact that when I turned 21 I was clustered to bed because of a possible miscarriage and of course, that very first time my orgasms were count.
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© Rebel’s Notes
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