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exploring8709 · 2 months

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Rough with a Gymbro

I'm honestly still going over in my head what happened. I'm a little shocked and admittedly still in a haze over this. I felt a rush, initially, to get my feelings down so I wouldn't forget, but now I'm feeling a little shy about sharing as I haven't fully processed everything. It didn't feel like me. But it definitely was me. There definitely isn't any regret, but I'm also still a little confused, maybe? I'm still trying to put words around it like a classic over thinker.

That night, though, there wasn't much preamble to speak of.

We were at his going away party, both tipsy after indulging in champagne after an intense workout. And then we were on the street, loud and raucous. And then a moment passed between us. The moment felt like a surging wave against a buckling dam. A month's worth of tension. A month's worth of supposed antagonism. Butterflies in my stomach. And then the dam broke.

I fucking hated this guy. I fucking loathed him and how he made me feel about myself. And then we were kissing in an alley. Then at his door. And then in his apartment, filled with moving boxes.

Kissing is a charitable description. His mouth devoured mine. I've never felt so physically inconsequential standing in someone's presence. He loomed over me. From where I usually sweat in our class, I never really noticed how solid he was. How large. How every part of his body felt like steel cables. I'm not a small girl. 5'8" in heels. And I felt like Faye Wray being grasped by King Kong.

And I was so turned on. Lovemaking has always held an ethereal, soft place in my life. It was something done by two-people in love. All gauzy, sweet expressions of mutual love and respect. This was hungry. Animalistic. This was Irish Lad, but as a sport, a workout, a fucking competition. And it filled me with newfound clarity . . . a sense of self that was in the moment and nothing beyond. I wanted to fuck this Jackass Gymbro so badly, I was sopping wet in anticipation.

He made short work of his shirt. Weird details flit back into my memory. His broad and muscled chest was hairless. The Twit, The Ex had hairy chests that felt like thin blankets. When I put my hands on Gymbro's chest, it felt like a brick wall. Solid. Immovable.

And then my tank top was ripped up and his mouth devoured my nipple. He sucked on one while his other muscular hand kneaded the other, just having his way with it. Pinching, mauling, squeezing it like I was his plaything. Even now, as a recollection, I remembered feeling like a passenger in this. That my agency wasn't exactly my own, even though I wanted this. His mouth on my breasts. The hunger he was exhibiting, the steely joy he was displaying, just made me weak, made me even more turned on. I don't want to say that I felt helpless, but his size, his strength, his need wasn't going to be stopped. I was bent over backwards as his mouth enveloped my breast, devouring it as if he was starving. I was flattered. I felt loved, even though we most definitely were not in love. I felt desired. I was so fucking turned on, I was going to let him do anything to me as long as it was more of this and as long as he approached it with the same gusto.

And his voice. His deep gravelly voice, literally like Vin Diesel on steroids, telling me bluntly what he wanted to do to me. Telling me he how badly he wanted to fuck me. How badly he wanted to fill me with his cock. He was no Baudelaire, but my face burns red even now at the thought of his words. The stark, direct filthy things he was saying . . . were so raw, visceral. They were demands, not suggestions. And it fucked with my mind . . . I wanted him to do these things to me. It aroused me to no end that he wanted me that badly. Up until recently, I thought he hated me. Loathed me. Worse yet, didn't even know I existed. I've never been talked to like that before . . . it was definitely a vibe.

I couldn't bring myself to talk back though. It was . . . awkward. I couldn't form the words, perhaps because my wires were so crossed up. This sort of passion was too new to me so new neural pathways were forming. And honestly, I was too overwhelmed by what was happening to me. What was being done to me.

His fingers snaked into my leggings, entering me roughly, possessively and if it were possible I remember blushing even deeper. Jackass Gymbro had just discovered how wet I was for this. How much I wanted this. I moaned in disappointment when he pulled his fingers out to show me my own wetness. His fucking smirk speaking volumes about his little victory. I fucking hated him. HATED. HIM.

But I wanted him to fuck me now.

And then my mind did absolute somersaults when he picked me up. Like I was nothing. Like I was one of his barbells. I was lifted like I was nothing and dropped on his bed, and he quite literally had his way with me. I remember squealing when I hit the bed, but then he was on me. On top of me. Pushing my legs apart with ease. I've never felt so small with a man before and it scared me a little. He was too strong. His grip on me . . . his hands holding me down . . . his weight on my body . . . his body just enveloped me. Make no mistake, I was not fighting for him to stop, but I wanted to regain some sort of control. Regain some semblance of . . . . dignity? It felt like I should be an equal participant. Like I owed it to all women to be more equal in this. A partner. Like we should be dancing a symbiotic dance together. But we weren't. And then I felt his the head of his cock brush up against my wet pussy, just enough to push me open slightly and all was lost after that. I pleaded for him to fuck me and like the jackass that he was he asked me to repeat myself. I groaned with frustration and tried in vain to reach for his cock to no avail. Every urge in me to just get up and leave was simply overwhelmed by how much I wanted him inside me. So I begged him to fuck me.

And he did.

I was momentarily stunned silent when he pushed his cock into me with one quick thrust. His cock wasn't any bigger than I had before (all three of them now), but it was the whole package. I fell almost into a trance, reveling in the sweet friction . . . like I didn't need to do anything but just take it and let the pleasure swallow me. Accept his thrusting. His constant thrusting. It hurt when he entered me initially, but when I took the length of him . . . not just the tip of his cock . . . I felt full. Complete. And I just took it. As his cock, his enormous form, his strong hands just . . . HAD me. All I could do was moan, then scream, then just grunt, then just whimper.

Then over the course of the evening, he basically threw me around the bed. He moved me into whatever position he wanted me in. I've never been fucked like that before. Every part of his body that I touched felt so . . . Solid. Not even real. Like he was a solid metal robot. His arms were like iron bars. His hands were thick and strong. His hands, his arms . . . he just grabbed me and held me where he wanted me to be. He spread my legs wide as if I was a gymnast (which I am NOT), my legs straining, my muscles pulling. I remember the feeling of his chest, sweaty, so well defined, like I was pushing against a wall, slick, but unyielding. And me being unable to do anything but match his thrusts with my hips.

Then my legs were over his shoulders. Then he raised me up on my shoulders pinning me down with every thrust. I could do nothing, but take it. I was just a doll for his pleasure and it made me so fucking hot. And then I was on my side with just one leg over his shoulder. And then I was on all fours, feeling his hips beat a pattern on my back side. The slap slap slap of fucking, my moans and his primal grunts danced together in my ears. And then I was on my stomach, feeling his full weight on me, our sweat mingling. He was in me so deep, as he straddled my thighs and thrust into me. Again, I was helpless under his weight, but I had lost count how many times I had cum. I loved something about this position, feeling just enveloped by his bulk, like I was only there only for his pleasure. I felt so overwhelmed by his passion, I wanted to give it back, I wanted to please him so much, and if he wanted me a certain way, I'd be in that way to help him get off. It felt odd, but it felt right at the same time. It really turned me on that he wanted me so badly and I just wanted to help him. I wanted to do anything to facilitate his pleasure. All I could do was raise my ass up and hunch along with his thrusts as he drilled me into the bed. I felt his sweat dripping onto my back as my face wrapped into his blankets, muffling my own grunts and my hands grasping at the sheets as if gripping them for dear life would extend the pleasure that was exploding inside me. I could hear my own voice . . . almost hoarse from the sounds I was making.

This was nothing like sex with The Ex. The Twit. Or even Irish Lad. This was FUCKING. Raw, carnal. And I was just a passenger. Honestly, it felt so good to just shut off. To fall into a puddle of wetness. To let the pleasure of his full scale assault on my senses envelope me. To just lay back and TAKE IT. To not have to think about him. To not have to think about what my next move was going to be. To not have to think what he was thinking of me. He obviously wanted me. He was fucking me silly. It felt invigorating that I didn't have to be 10 steps ahead all of the time. This was happening to me. I just had to sit back and enjoy it . . . .

Finally, I remember hearing him groan and then feel a momentary sense of loss when he pulled his cock from me. I felt his cum splash on my back, on my ass. I almost felt empty when his thrusting stopped, but I was suddenly exhausted.

I was sore, still a little drunk, but not sure if it was from the alcohol or having just been in a sexual stupor for the last hour or so. Being twisted, pulled, spread, held, gripped by this fucking Jackass Gymbro. I was drenched with sweat. And I felt elated. It brought me such relief to not have to THINK so much. He wanted what he wanted and I all I had to do was just be there. Be a source of pleasure for him. And he just took what he wanted. I wasn't an English Major with an MBA working in corporate finance. I was simply there for his pleasure. I liked the simplicity of this transaction. I could be in the moment and I could enjoy it.

We lay in his bed for a moment, a tangle of sweaty limbs, just breathing heavy. And then we laughed. And laughed. I told him honestly that I felt like he was my personal trainer and he just put me through one of his toughest workouts. He stared at me unphased and told me that wasn't even the hardest level. I honestly felt butterflies.

We lay there for a moment longer, him caressing my back. It was nice. But I told him that I had to go to work the next day. I found all of my workout clothes strewn about his apartment and limped out of his place, but not before he put his number into my phone.

#confession #diary #dear diary #digital diary #singleinthecity #singlegirl #MBAlife #dayinthelife

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exploring8709 · 3 months

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I couldn't stop myself

It was the perfect confluence of events. His lilting Irish accent. His old world chivalry. A lavish wedding. A knowing look. His gorgeous cheek bones. His gorgeous hair.

AND I was drunk. SO drunk.

Otherwise, I don't think I would have been there. In an unattended cloak room. Kissing. Groping. I felt his hardness through is dress pants and it dawned on me how long it has been since I've felt this passion. My need. Someone else's need. I missed this physicality. This feeling of strong hands on me. Hardness because of me.

I ran my lips across his neck, his stubble chafing my cheek. I can still remember the smell of his cologne. His rough fingers in my hair, cupping my cheeks, then on my waist. Kissing me like I was the only one in the world. After the week (the month, the YEAR) that I had. I was all about this.

But I don't do this. Dragging a boy into a closet to fill my need. This isn't me is it? My desires were taking control. I was on autopilot. For once, I had a need, and I tried to fulfill it. I pulled him into the cloak room. I shushed his protests. I pushed my lips on to his. I rubbed his hardness through his pants, goading him on. I needed this. I so needed this. My passion, my desire, my outright horniness, stoked by our surroundings, our circumstances, my history.

A sweet baby faced construction worker here for a week, with cheekbones so sharp you could cut glass. Strong arms, strong hands. I feel his muscles through his suit, his hard chest solid to touch. I can hear the wedding just outside the door. That dark mahogany door. What if someone were to open the door? Catch us in the act? I don't fucking care. My cheeks still blush at the thought of my carelessness. My brazeness. My usually better judgement clouded by my desire.

I suck on his tongue as he holds my cheek in one of his hands, his other hand gliding down the rouching of my dress. It stops at my waist and I groan in desire. The groan still rings in my head. I guide his hand lower and I help it pull my dress up, slowly bunching it in our grips as the hem rises higher and higher.

And then he presses me up against the wall and he makes short work of my panties. Serves them right anyways. They were doing a crummy job of hiding how wet I was. Then his fingers were in me. His skillful, thick fingers. In me knuckle deep, and I saw stars. He pinned me to the wall like I was a butterfly on a board. His fingers the sole implement of my impalement, but I was all about those fingers. I break the kiss and my eyes close and I arch my neck, my mouth slack with ecstasy. A soundless wail that was just waiting for this. His thumb brushed my clit and my whole body jerked. I was vaguely aware of the distant wedding din, but I was in no place to care. I wanted this. I needed this. It had been so long.

He held me behind my neck as he stared directly at me, goading me to keep my eyes open. But I couldn't. I wanted to sink into what was being done to me. I wanted to float away on the desire that had been building for a week now. I walk on the razor's edge of being panicked that someone might walk in and being turned on that this is happening, right now, with only a dark mahogany door protecting me from scandal. He watches me react with lust in his eyes, but I felt no shame. One hand rested on his chest while the other covered my mouth in vain, trying to keep my moans from rising above the din outside.

I can hear my pleasure tinged voice, keening over the background noise. My knees are weak and my ankles wobbly as all my energy goes towards keeping his fingers inside me and keeping my voice down. He keeps his eyes on me, devouring my every contortion, every shudder, every vain attempt at maintain my composure. I hear voices pass in front of the door, but I'm so close . . . so ready to release. My eyes plead for him to not stop, even as my one hand clamps tightly over my mouth to keep myself from screaming and and the other lingers on his chest. So close . . . my orgasm . . . embarrassing discovery. The thrill of this private moment being performed in such a (semi) public space. The danger. The lust all roll into one ball as I reach a crescendo.

My legs turn to jelly as I get closer. The fact that the whole wedding was just on the other side of that mahogany door, spurred me on. Was it the potential for humiliation, the secret of what was going on in this dimly lit back room versus what was going on out there. My hips hunch along with his thrusts, like an obscene puppet. My knee and thighs clamp together on his hand, trying to suck him in whole. The waves of pleasure stun me silent as I cum, and cum, and CUM. I fall into his chest, exhausted, but with my head still buzzing with lust.

I took a moment to compose myself with my forehead on his chest, sucking in air as best as I could. Then I gave him a wry smile, and pushed him into an empty chair behind us. I didn't take my eyes from him as I shimmied my dress up, fell to my knees between his legs and pulled his hard, gorgeous cock out. It wasn't too big, it wasn't too small. Like a dirty little Goldilocks, it was just right. I waited until a group of revelers started to pass too close to the door. Irish Lad noticed too and tensed, his arms reaching for mine, getting ready to lift me up to try and maintain a sense of decorum. Sweet boy. I wanted him in my mouth even more for that thought. Honestly, it just spurred me on. As they were just outside the door and he was ready to bounce up, I gave his cock a long languorous lick from his balls to the bulbous tip, and then devoured his cock whole. I saw the split second where worry became lust as my tongue danced around his length, even as my head moved up and down his shaft. It's been a month since I've given head. A month since a cock has been inside my mouth . . . I've missed it. I've missed the sweet feeling of the ultimate manifestation of masculinity passing across my lips and violating my mouth, stretching my lips. His sharp breath and slight pressure on my head banished all thoughts of discovery from his head. I wanted him to cum. I wanted some pleasure for him as he helped me scratch my itch. I wanted pleasure for him to forget his cheating Irish Lass' face. I wanted pleasure for him because it felt so right. I was never going to see him again anyways, so why not?

My pace quickened and his grip tightened. Like at good gentlemen does, he signaled his soon to arrive climax. I answered with a "not on my dress". I loved this dress. And I swallowed him whole again, letting him cum in my mouth. The taste, so specific, so wrapped in so much more, was welcome, but still shocking . . . there's nothing like it outside of these types of moments that compares. I swallowed and swallowed and reveled as his head fell back in ecstasy, unable to keep eye contact. I view that as a win.

After a moment's respite, our eyes lock and we giggle silently. I fall back on my butt and he sprawls in his chair. Then we hurriedly right ourselves. Me straightening my dress, taking a quick shot of my beer, and then fixing my lipstick. Him, wobbling to his feet and zipping his pants up. Guys will always have it easier.

I don't know what that was. Whether it was the alcohol, the wedding, the fact that I was most probably ovulating, the fear of getting caught, the stressful week, the lovely lilt of his accent . . . whatever. That mind bending passion, that line crossing arousal--that is something I want to feel again. Like a drug I was missing in my life. It was intoxicating.

#confession #dear diary #digital diary #singleinthecity #singlegirl #MBAlife #dayinthelife

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