xxx-My One Night Stand Weekend

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By Lauren McAllister

When my eyes finally summoned up the Spartan-like courage to pry open their heavy lids that fateful morning, my head was not a happy camper. Plus, my vision was a little blurry. My tummy might have also a wee bit upset. None of this was totally surprising, considering the night I had just endured. Two of the girls from my office were leaving for a branch Australia and I decided to send them off “down under” with an unholy evening of unbridled mayhem and over indulgence. I had had a bit of a fling with one of the damsels in question and I was really going to miss our “quality time” together. The events of our babe-centric bacchanal are crystal clear in my mind…until about 9 o’clock that night. Then…the morning happened.

What was of concern to me at this juncture was not my complete loss of memory but the weight I had on my chest. No, it wasn’t a heart attack, it was an unexpected guest. FUCK! This is one of those situations – like having a cold-fingered gynecologist – that every girl dreads. Waking up naked, with some equally unclothed stranger, can make for some exceedingly awkward moments.

Hey, I occasionally like to indulge in the odd drink and this had happened to me once before but at least that time, I realized what I’d done. I remembered coming home with the idiot and still retained some vague memory of messy, floppy-dicked drunk sex. I think the only bodily fluid we managed to successfully exchange was our vomit the next morning. All I can say is that it’s fortunate that heads aren’t as big as asses when you both have to share the toilet.

This time is was horrifyingly different. I had absolutely no idea who this person was. I knew instantly that it wasn’t my delicious Claire because her forearm wasn’t nearly that hairy…plus I could feel an erection digging into my ass-crack. Shit! What to do? I searched and searched my ravaged memory banks for any recollection of the events that had to lead up to this moment. Nothing. Man, I must have been righteously hammered.

I felt him wiggle up tighter against me and say, “Hey Sandra, you’re amazing.”

Double Shit! He knew my name but until two seconds ago, I didn’t even know that he was a guy.

Mystery Man kissed the back of my neck and squeezed the titty he had in his hand. There were three options. I could either scream, bolt out of the bed and politely ask him to leave or I could even more politely let him fuck me again (which was obviously his intention). There was nothing to be gained by being hasty in my delicate condition, so I decided to roll over and see what he looked like before screaming the apartment down. Alas, he had his tongue plunged down my throat before I could even fully focus. I was tired and a little dyspeptic and I really didn’t have the strength or the will to get into a whole, “get the hell off me you filthy pig” sort of scene, so didn’t resist when he grabbed my ass and yanked my lap-lunch full tilt into his swollen Johnson. More deep, deep kissing ensued and much groping (okay, some of the groping may have been me). I sure wish I could have seen what he looked, though. Umphh. His hand had now officially morphed into Dora the Explorer and she was well ensconced in my fertile lowlands. He had a reasonable aptitude for getting the monkey greased and I felt myself getting more and more into the spirit of the moment. His frisky frolicking digits were flitting about my quickly moistening feminine folds when “plop”, in went a finger. It would have seemed quite unsportsmanlike now to halt the procreative proceedings so I grabbed onto his Jolly Roger and began to pump the primer. While his mast was far from massive, at least it didn’t require special glasses or a search party with bloodhounds to locate.

Pet Peeve:

There’s nothing more disappointing than having a guy wine and dine you, getting him home, taking his pants off and finding nothing but a pair of balls. I mean, if I wanted to spend the night tribbing my brains out, I’d invite one of my girlfriends over. At least they’re good at it. There should be some sort of system where a girl can find out what a gentleman is packing at a club without having to follow him into the men’s room. Maybe a system of color-coded shirts, just to let a lady know how many inches she can look forward when it comes time for “the unveiling”.

Back To Story:

So, we’re busily working over each other’s naughty parts with a fair amount of goo-producing gusto when he decides it’s time for “the manoeuvre”. Flip and separate. Bingo. I was on my back and my legs completely lost sight of one another as Mystery Man made himself at home on top of me. One hand had engulfed my left breast while the other was guiding “the monster” home. Can you believe the unbelievable shit that we girls let ourselves get into?

Ooooh. After a second or two of pretty wan resistance from my virtue vault, the penis portal was breached and he got right to the task of making his puke-stick nauseous. I finally caught a glimpse of his face when he raised himself on his arms so he could look down and watch his cock piston back and forth into my juice carrier. And, I’ll admit it, after a brief assessment of his physog (which wasn’t bad but hardly the kind of thing that girly wet dreams are made of) my eyes also wandered on down to the pelvic proceedings. It is one of those sights – a gentleman jamming his jimmy up your hoohaw like he’s trying to cum into your skull cavity – that turns my lick-lump up to eleven. From this point on, I don’t care if he’s handsome or whether he’s got an extra mouth on his forehead. I just need him to keep pounding that pud. “Do me, baby!” I call out. (That’s as close to his actual name as I could get.)

As his boner banging picked up speed and intensity, I could feel that my dam was about ready to burst. It had been a couple of months since I’d “entertained” a gentleman so I was ripe for a good one. Sure enough, it hit me like a runaway mail train. 10,000 volts of Whoopee! shot up through my uterus, setting alight to everything in its path. My first set of orgasmic contractions almost bucked him into the next apartment and his next couple of thrusts set off the sprinklers. I don’t always squirt, but I could have put out a Buddhist monk with what shot out of me. All control and decorum are right out the window. Right now, I’m a flailing, foul-mouth fuck machine. I’ve got my nails dug so far into his ass cheeks; I could have gone bowling with him. And just as I start squirting out, he starts squirting in. Bam! Loverboy slams his pecker into me hard and pauses. That lets me know that he’s in the process of spray-painting my cervix with his nut-butter. A couple of grunts, another couple of major loads penis paste and his torso goes limp on top of me….and then he goes limp elsewhere.

After a few more seconds (guys don’t usually linger up there, once they’ve completed their mission) he rolls off and asks me about breakfast.

“Jesus Christ!” thought I, “I’m on my back, my tits are crushed and my vag is still throbbing and this lucky fuck wants me to whip him up some post-coital croissants. He’s got his goddamn nerve.”

“No need to show me where stuff is. I’m good at finding things.”

And with that, he pops up out of bed, dick swinging as he walked, and headed off to the kitchen.

All the time I’m eating this incredible French toast, I’m still trying to remember what happened that night. His name. Anything about him. It’s an absolute blank. Motherfucker, I must have had a lot to drink. And to his credit, he didn’t just “do me” and head for the hills. Mystery Man stayed the entire weekend. True, he made his stay more than worthwhile. I got fucked from behind while doing the dishes. I blew him in my elevator. He ate me out while I told him stories about me doing my girlfriends. And Sunday night…he got anal.

Now, not that I didn’t enjoy our sizzling 48 hours together, but I’ll admit that I was quite relieved when he was gone come Monday morning. I mean, it’s not like I was looking for a roommate or anything. And besides, after the anal, our romance had pretty well run its course. I sat up in bed and enjoyed my solitude…and not having to put out to get a cup of coffee.

That’s when I saw a note on my nightstand. “Ah,” I thought, “he’s left me some sort of sweet ‘thank you’.”

And then I read it.

“Dear Sandra:

Thanks for an unbelievable weekend. You are an incredibly sweet lady and a great lay but I’m afraid I have to make a confession. You didn’t bring me home from that club. I was robbing your apartment when you came home and caught me there. Well, you would have caught me but you were so drunk, you didn’t even notice me standing in the middle of your apartment. I took your clothes off and put you to bed but then I was afraid you’d do a Bon Scott and suffocate on your own vomit, so I took my clothes off and got into bed with you. Well, in the morning, one thing led to another….

Anyway, all I ended up stealing from you was taxi money and a pair of your underwear as a souvenir.

Yours truly,

Rob (if that is my real name)

P.S. Thanks so much for the anal.”

That fucking son of a bitch!

THE END

Copyright 2014 Lauren McAllister

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