Bite Me.

Everything happens for a reason.  Of course sometimes the reason is that I’m a bit dim and make poor decisions.  During the bored spell between Christmas and New Year I actually bothered to go through all my messages on Fab and delete the 99% that were dross, replying to the 1% that interested me.

Among the messages was a 3 week old message from someone who had enclosed a face photo and basically messaged “this is me – let me know if you like it”.  It’s not a message that would normally grab the imagination but the photo was of him with a bright red parrot on his shoulder, and the tiny thumbnail on my phone led me in my terrible eyesight to see it as the weirdest ever santa hat.  I had a chuckle and messaged exactly that back, only to find the sender was online at that very moment.

He told me he was free for a social drink that afternoon and in a weird coincidence I was also free and looking vaguely presentable as I was ready to go out for dinner with friends.  We agreed to meet at a coffee shop and an hour later suited actions to words.

My first impression was that I was badly underdressed in my jeans and jumper, as he was wearing a matching tweed coat and flat cap combo that looked incredibly smart.  My second impression was that the place we’d met was far too busy for us to have as open a conversation as I’d have liked.

Drinks quickly drunk S suggested a walk along the prom back to our cars.  It was a bitterly cold and slightly breezy evening so when we got to his car and he asked to continue the conversation (by now openly explicit) sitting inside I hopped in with barely a second thought. Sometimes I can’t tell my life from the start of an SVU episode.

S liked fat birds and was extremely open about it.  He found me very sexy and was extremely open about that too.  I enjoyed his enthusiasm, his enormous personality and his open appreciation of me.  Occasionally I’d say something he found particularly arousing and he’d growl at me. I appreciate that sounds ridiculous but his passion and the animalistic way he chose to show it turned my insides liquid.

When he said he’d like to kiss me we shared an intense but all too brief kiss before it was time to depart.  He said he’d like to see me again if I was up for it, I confirmed I was extremely up for it and then I headed off for dinner, all too aware of just how wet my knickers were for the remainder of the evening.

Four days later saw him in my flat and in my bed.  The earlier promise was delivered in spades, with S manhandling me, biting and pulling and pushing and pinning me down as he thrust deep inside of me, his cock stretching me as his teeth worried at my flesh.

He’s very quick to learn what works and doesn’t work for me.  The first time I had to take his hand from my neck was also the last – seeing my discomfort he never strayed there again.  When fingering me made me orgasm harder than anything else we’d done he tried more fingers until he figured exactly how full I like to be before it becomes uncomfortable.

I’ve already said S bit me.  He had told me about his predilection for biting and I was fine with it, having enjoyed being bitten by previous lovers.  I wasn’t prepared for S and his passionate enthusiasm.  He worried at my flesh, biting my vulva and my inner thighs and my breasts, the tender flesh of the inside of my arm, my stomach, my abdomen.  I barely noticed at the time, lost in a frenzy of lust and orgasm after orgasm crashing over me.  Over the course of the next day the bruises bloomed into deep black and purple marks, my vulva so sore I could barely masturbate, the bruise at the top of my breast high enough to be noticed in a not overly low cut top I wear for work.

When we were messaging I mentioned the bruises, and that while I enjoyed them, maybe we needed to focus on their placement (vulva wasn’t as enjoyable as my arse, breasts are more visible than my back).  I took some photos of my marked skin, which proved to be an error.  I’d thought S would find them arousing, but instead he was horrified. He told me it was a real wake up call for him, which hadn’t been at all my intention.  Even when I restated the need for relocation rather than stopping completely, S was determined.  His biting days were over.

The times we’ve met since then he hasn’t bitten me, and any bruises tend to be caused accidentally by fingers gripping a little too tightly, not by design.  He is still one of the most passionate and enthusiastic lovers I’ve had, but I feel as though somehow I have put a dampener on his free enjoyment by misreading his likely reaction to the photographs.  In truth I’m glad to have the only soreness to my vulva be from an enthusiastic pounding (I’m sore in the best of all possible ways today after seeing S twice yesterday), but I’d really be quite happy for him to sink his teeth into my arse on occasion.