Chapter 1

"I don't..." I gasped breathlessly. "I don't ... fuck on the first date. Really. Not usually."

Nah.

I tried it on for size and it didn't work. I pressed my pussy closer, to let his drunken tongue finish me off.

He was sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, and I was standing in front of him, panties around my ankles, dress up around my waist. He was still fully dressed, but had insisted he wanted it this way.

I'd picked him up in a bar, and we'd had a few drinks. It was made very plain to him that he wasn't going to be in for a long struggle to convince me to come home with him. Or to come with him, for that matter.

We'd walked, slowly and erratically, from the bar to his little shack by the beach. It was no Hilton. Neither was he. Hubert, he told me his name was. Hubert Porcine. A short fat man, jovial, and already drunk. I didn't mind. Hell, it's not like I was picky.

The shack was as scruffy as he was, as though it too were drunk on a regular basis. It seemed to mostly be propped up by the sandy grass that grew around it. The whole place was a single room, refrigerator at one end, bed at the other. We didn't spend long checking out the fridge.

He'd fallen to the floor near the bed, and rather than moving further, he'd suggested the option I described above. He'd watched avidly as I'd thrown off my shoes, wriggled mostly out of my small black panties, and lifted the green skirt to reveal myself. He might have been drunk, but I could see he was hard as well.

"I wondered," he muttered.

"What's that?" He grinned, and then I knew what he meant. He'd said in the bar that he liked redheads, but he didn't know if I was a real one. Now he knew.

His hands seemed unaffected by the alcohol, and he reached up and grabbed my buttocks. I stumbled closer, tripping over my panties before kicking them across the floor. He held me just in front of his face, and took a proper look. I've always liked being watched, so I let him.

That was when I said it. About fucking on the first date. You can see how it didn't quite work, right? So I took his shoulders, and pulled myself in close, pressing my dampness against his face, and encouraged him to take me.

I don't know if it was him, or me, or the drink, but it didn't take long. His tongue explored in an intrigued-but-still-relaxed fashion, licking in and around my most desperate parts. Shortly he settled on the main event, flicking my slippery clit lightly with his wet tongue, his hands scraping the skin on my buttocks. I thrust against him to encourage him to move faster, and he did, licking and sucking with abandon. I dripped and moaned, writhed between his hands, and suddenly came in his face.

It might have been quick, but it was great. I love to come standing up. Waves of pleasure rushed up and down my body, centred where his tongue was still moving, slowly cleaning up, avoiding the more sensitive spots. He might have been shabby and drunk, but he had technique to spare. I just enjoyed it.

After a while I realised that as nice as that had been, I needed more. So instead of offering to return the tongue lashing, I leaned forward onto the end of the bed, and crawled up, dragging my open thighs over his still-flicking tongue, until I was clear of him, and crouched on the bed.

I stayed in a crouching position, pulled my knees in under my breasts, and tucked my arms as well. I put my face down, and said nothing. I just waited.

Okay, so that's weird, right, but it made sense to me. I'd just used him. Treated him as an object. A toy. I wanted him to do the same to me.

I heard him stir behind me, and knew he'd stumbled to his feet. He'd looked, and liked what he'd seen. I heard the intake of his breath, and then the slide of his belt. I looked back in time to see him drop his trousers, and unsheath that bulge. He might have been a short fat man, but his endowment was nothing to be shy about.