I never planned to tell anyone about that night, but here it is, raw and exactly how it went down. I was thirty-two, straight as far as anyone knew, and living with the constant itch of curiosity that porn and late-night fantasies never quite scratched. Then I met Derek at a work conference afterparty. He was a few years older, broad-shouldered, with a low voice that made everything he said sound like a secret. We talked for hours, the conversation sliding from business to women to, eventually, the one thing I’d never said out loud: I’d always wondered what it would feel like with a guy.
He didn’t laugh. He just looked at me over his beer and said, “You want to find out tonight?”
My pulse hammered in my throat the whole cab ride to his hotel. Inside the room, the door clicked shut and neither of us moved for a second.
Then he stepped in close, cupped the back of my neck, and kissed me. It was nothing like kissing a woman. His mouth was firmer, his stubble rough against my skin, and when his tongue slid against mine I felt my cock twitch hard in my jeans.
“Take your clothes off,” he said, voice already thicker. I stripped while he watched, feeling exposed and strangely proud when my dick sprang up, already leaking. He stripped slower, letting me see the thick line of his cock pressing against his briefs before he pushed them down. He was bigger than me, veined, the head shiny. My mouth actually watered.
“On the bed,” he told me. I lay back and he crawled between my legs, his hands spreading my thighs wide. He didn’t rush. He ran his palms up my inner thighs, then wrapped one hand around my shaft and gave a slow stroke that made my hips jerk. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, amused and gentle at the same time.
“Never done this,” I admitted.
“I know.” He leaned down and licked a stripe up the underside of my cock, then took the head into his mouth. The heat and wet suction hit me like a punch. I groaned loud, one hand flying to his hair. He sucked me deeper, tongue working the sensitive spot just under the head, one hand rolling my balls. I was panting and swearing in under a minute, trying not to thrust into his throat.
When he pulled off I almost begged. Instead he reached for lube on the nightstand and slicked his fingers. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, then pressed one fingertip against my hole. The first push inside burned, but he went slow, working the finger in and out until my body started to open. A second finger followed, scissoring gently, and when he curled them upward I saw stars. My cock jerked untouched against my stomach.
“Fuck, right there,” I gasped. He kept rubbing that spot, stretching me, adding more lube until I was rocking down onto his hand. I felt empty when he pulled his fingers free, but then he rolled on a condom and lined up. The blunt head of his cock pressed against me and I tensed.
“Breathe,” he said. “Push out a little.” I did, and the head popped inside. It hurt, a deep stretch that made me grit my teeth, but he stayed still, letting me adjust. Inch by inch he sank deeper until his hips met my ass and he was fully inside me. I felt split open, filled in a way I’d never imagined. My cock had softened a little from the intensity, but when he started to move with short, careful thrusts it hardened again fast.
He fucked me with steady rolls of his hips, changing angles until every stroke dragged over that same spot inside me. Pleasure started to build, hot and liquid. I reached down to jerk myself and he knocked my hand away, replacing it with his own. His fist was tight and slick around me, stroking in time with his thrusts. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping skin and my own broken moans.
“Harder,” I heard myself say. He gave it to me, driving deeper, sweat dripping from his chest onto mine. I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him in, chasing the feeling. When I came it was sudden and violent, my ass clenching around his cock as ropes of come striped my stomach and chest. He kept fucking me through it until his rhythm faltered and he buried himself deep with a low groan, pulsing inside the condom.
Afterward he stayed inside me for a long minute, both of us catching our breath. When he pulled out I felt the loss immediately. He cleaned us up with a warm washcloth, then lay beside me, one arm draped over my chest.
“You okay?” he asked.
I laughed, shaky and amazed. “Yeah. Fuck. I’m more than okay.”
We didn’t talk much after that. He let me stay the night. In the morning we showered together and I sucked him off under the spray, clumsy but eager, learning the weight of him on my tongue. He came with his hand in my hair and I swallowed every drop, already wondering when I could have him again.
That was the first time. It wasn’t the last. Every time since has been better because I stopped pretending I didn’t want it. I wanted his cock, his hands, the way he looked at me like he knew exactly how to break me apart and put me back together. And I wanted to give it back just as hard.
I still think about that first night when I’m alone. The burn, the fullness, the way my body learned something new about itself. I came harder than I ever had before, and I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.
