Hardest State
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Story Codes: MF, Consensual,  Exhibitionism,


Hardest State
by Big Don



I’d abstained from sex for a month, saving it especially for him. Believe me, it’s worth the
wait if you are able. And you have someone like Fernando.

 I wrapped his front door with my right hand while slipping my left hand into my panties,
where it’d been for most of the 3 hour drive down here.

 “I’m not ready yet.” I heard him say from the other side.

 “Course you are dear, open up.”

 “Seriously. Give me half an hour.”

 “I gave you three hours notice before I even set out.”

 “Grab a coffee in town or something. The door will be open when you get back.”

 “Fuck!”

 Slamming the letterbox and stomping away, I wondered what kind of adult material he
was watching. I had a hunch he was into pain stuff, whipping perhaps, but hopefully he
drew the line at consensual lashes and didn’t get a kick from tears or blood. If he did, then
shame on him. Real physical man-contact, plain and simple, was enough for me.

 He was abnormal; there was no hiding from it. The fact that he needed so long alone to
prepare himself for the task of pleasuring a woman was by far the strangest sexual
behaviour I had ever come across in a man. He called it ‘working himself into his hardest
state’, and swore it couldn’t be done in any less time than it took to watch a couple of
overdrawn movies back to back with a Sunday roast cooked from scratch in between. It
was all about the levels of lactic acid within the shaft of the muscle, amongst other things,
he reckoned.

 Sex without this odd private prelude, watching whatever he watched and sniffing
whatever he sniffed, was out of the question. He would rather go without altogether. I
wouldn’t.

 When I returned, I undressed from the waist down in his hallway, index finger and thumb
tuning my clit like a radio knob. The adjoining bedroom was murky, blinds drawn,
television flickering static. He was naked from the waist down also, kneading himself in
both hands. I bent over the bed and arched my backside in the air.

 He parted my left butt cheek and plunged deep into my vagina, pulling my hips onto him,
thinking my pussy must be bottomless. Despite my loud gasp, I immediately bounced back
onto his down-stroke before he had chance to thrust in again, gripping the bed linen in
my fists, sinking down onto my elbows.

 He gasped himself. It’s very important not to be totally dominated.

 After a while though, he had me at his breathless mercy, our tops removed, fluidly rolling
into different positions. Whatever deranged ritual he insisted upon before we did this, I
have to say it worked. His prick was like a stick. Utterly solid and long, like a lengthy
unyielding vibrator. Like a bone, stuck on. And it stayed that way. There was no foreplay,
no fondling......he just got up me, and stayed up me......for the rest of the evening and
some of the night. I had two bathroom breaks.

 To just be lying there comfortable side by side with a man so large, relaxing with him
buried inside me to the hilt, writhing ever so gently, is much more preferable to a quick
bang over the washing machine. We talked as he nibbled the back of my neck and my
ear, all blunt questions and yes or no answers.

 We were quite incompatible, in the real world. Out together on the odd occasion as a
friendly pair trying to act like a couple, everything was forced and strained; but here, in
his darkened room, conjoined, he was the one, he was made for me.

 To think that I was his first and only mature sexual partner made me feel incredibly lucky
for myself......and terribly sorry for those who were missing out. I pitied him slightly too,
because he could never climax. That was the price he paid for whatever he put himself
through during the ‘ritual’.

 I blew him until my jaw hurt. I tugged him so fast and hard it was a comprehensive arm
workout. He pumped my motoring fist to the point when the bedsprings threatened to give.

 “It’s okay, Elle, don’t worry about it,” he said.

 I did worry about it, this time. After my multiple orgasms, I wanted him to know how
grateful I was. I was perhaps the most grateful woman in the land. I didn’t see how any
other woman alive could possibly be as grateful as me. So I worked my fingers inside his
rectum, accessing his juice-tank from a special location he never knew existed, deriving
immense pleasure as he shivered into a fit of soppy spasms, soaking his sheets.

 I was thinking about leaving him some extra money for the laundry bill and departing, but
instead I removed the linen before his extract could sink into the mattress. Then I huddled
Fernando beneath the duvet, damp with our perspiration, until first light broke into the
room, silver with the hollow promise of winter.

THE END


© 2010 Big Don


BIG DON likes to write his saucy stories in nightclubs, on any weekend evening. He once
took an easel into a lap dancing joint and started to paint their best model, until
management advised he leave. His favourite short story is 'Good enough to eat' by Ricky
Windell George. He frequently travels to and from Nigeria, where he genuinely cherishes
three wives. Please visit his site online @
piebald77.blogspot.com