I love women. But every now and then I meet a man I want. And I fantasise. And it started with Tomas. The first man I fell for. And so far, the only man I have been with.

This is what happened.
So. Where to begin? After messing around as a barman and dancer, my early career was spent as an English Language teacher, working mainly overseas, but with a couple of stints in Brighton. It was the nineties. Both the students and teachers were all in our twenties. The school was small and funky. Brazilians, Argentinians, Spanish, Polish, Russians… all here for 1 week to six months… adventures, explorations… a happy, horny little mix. Lots of flirting, fancying and fucking. It was the best time.
I kept in touch with a few. Facebook photos show older, greyer, marrieder, but still lovely people. It was also a time when many could explore other sides. For some it was permissive sex, for some it was same sex fun – Brighton allowed freedoms unheard of in their own countries, with their own families.
And Spanish Tomas. 20. Tall…classic bullfighter physique, but with those long dark Spanish lashes, softest eyes. You could see girls go all swooshy. We loved him – because he always seemed totally oblivious, and seemed more interested in learning about British beer and rugby. I got on well with him – as I spent a lot of time involved in both those things. Nice chap. Spent about a year in Brighton, and by the end we were good mates.
But time went on, and we lost touch.
Cut to 5 years ago. I was working in London – presenting at a conference – keynote speaker so was being put up in a nice hotel – The St James Court. First evening, showered, unpacked, so down to the lobby bar.
Now – background. It had been 8 months since I’d had sex. My partner at the time was going through a depression and it was just not on the cards. I was coping, but desperately missing intimacy and affection. I was reaching the stage where I had begun to think that if anyone (any woman, in my mind) reached out, I’d say yes.
Back to St James Court. Of course, Tomas was in the bar. We recognised each other immediately. He looked the same, but even broader across the shoulders. Seemed taller. Still completely gorgeous. I remember being very conscious of the fact that I was staring at him as we talked. Feeling excited. Feeling – well… really weird. We talked about the usual stuff…everyone we had known in London. We went out for dinner. He was working for a Spanish travel magazine, so he paid for everything on expenses. Lovely meal. We got on exactly the same as we always had. But I realised that we were flirting. That my excitement was sexual. ‘Wow,’ I thought. ‘I’m going to have to have a good think about this later tonight’. More drinks. The moment I realised our legs were touching under the table. Telling him about my marriage situation. Wanting him to ask me about sex.
And then walking through St James Park on the way back to the hotel – arm in arm – it’s a Spanish thing. I don’t remember the ins and outs of the situation, but I do remember talking about missing the passion. I also remember him pressing me against a tree, and saying “Passion, like this?” before kissing me, gently on the lips, bending down and taking my head in his hands – he’s a big man, a full head taller than me. It was so shocking, so taboo, so absolutely electric. The wine had been good. It had been three years. I moved my lips – the tell-tale signal. I can still feel the sense of incredible eroticism of a man’s tongue pushing into my mouth. A man bigger and stronger than me. Christ, he smelled good.
I remember walking back quickly. I think there was an urgency for both of us. I had no idea what was going to happen, but I was so ridiculously excited.
He took me to his room. And there, he undressed me. Telling me how he had always wanted men. How he had always wanted me. How he used rugby and beer as an excuse to be with me. But how he had been too scared to say anything.
Well. Not scared now. I was completely naked in front of another man. Years of rugby meant in essence this was nothing new. But now I wasn’t in a changing room. Not bantering. Now my bare feet were on a soft carpet. My hands loose at my sides as this tall beautiful man watched my cock thicken and rise. You know when it’s hard to breathe?
He told me to undress him. Which I did, slowly – and the total newness of touching a man – his arms, shoulders, hips, thighs (o Jesus, his thighs) and then finally, trembling, his beautiful hard cock. It’s difficult to put into words what it was like to hold his cock. Everything was so familiar, yet so other. I remember pushing him onto the edge of the bed, and kneeling between his thighs, and just, you know… exploring. Feeling the softness of the skin, the heat of his balls in my hands, the way the dark shiny head appeared as I moved his foreskin back and forth. And I knew how it felt. I loved those first moments between his thighs. I still see them.

From there it’s a kaleidoscope of images. I remember being amazed at the greed that overtook me when I took his cock in my mouth. I wanted it all. Wanted it deep in my throat. Wanted to push my nose into the hair at its base. Christ – I wanted to feel it down into my chest. But I just couldn’t do it… but he understood. He was so understanding about everything.
But I remember being completely dominated. Held down, his hands on my shoulders, feeling his cock slide against mine.
I remember feeling his muscles, running my hands over his back, feeling the ridges, squeezing his buttocks. Burying my face into his chest … biting his nipples.
I remember the outrageous sensation of his tongue in my ass. Screwing my eyes tight shut, my toes curling in pleasure.
And I remember him rolling me onto my stomach, one hand on the base of my spine, as the other put on a condom. Again, it felt outrageous. I remember my brain screaming “omygodomygodomygod… gonnabefucked.. omygodomygod…”. Scared, excited, but above all, awash with the need for him.
I pushed my ass into the air – I remember saying ‘O, fuck me’, feeling a strange mix of open, vulnerable, and lascivious. I remember words like ‘tart… slut’ coming into my head. Then his big hands on my buttocks, squeezing them and moving them apart. Then a pause and the ridiculously erotic click of the lubricant pump (why was even THAT such a turn on?). And then his fingers sliding around, and back and forth, and all the time sliding deeper and back, and deeper and back. And then… his cock. Slow. So slow. Inexorable. Sliding into me. Christ, it hurt – but I wanted the pain too. I wanted all that heavy cock inside me. The head pushing into my small hole was such delicious agony. I forced my whole pelvis to relax. To loosen. All I could think of was his cock in my ass.
And then suddenly he was inside… and the pain gave way to the most fabulous floods of pleasure radiating through my pelvis. I was being fucked… by a man! I had never had that feeling of being invaded, of being owned. I felt so exposed, so open. My own cock felt more swollen that I had ever known, squashing hard into the bed as he pushed me down, one hand between my shoulder blades, the other spreading my buttocks.
I lost it a little – I remember him shushing me, laughing. I’d never felt completely dominated before. I’d always been in control. But now I was his. I felt small within his bigness. But I also felt the power of knowing he wanted me. Of hearing him gasp when I clenched my ass around his cock. The intimacy and desire after so long was completely overwhelming.
I remember him sliding his cock out of my ass. And a wave of “noooo…” passing through me. I wanted it back. But when he turned me over and placed my ankles on his shoulders, I felt… so joyful. Once again, he buried his cock deep into my ass. Easier this time. Just a little pain. Then that blissful fullness. I have images of his abs clenching above my cock, his hands pinching my nipples, my fingers pulling on his chest hair. Watching this man fuck me, my legs wide open and my cock and balls bouncing up and down as he bore down into my ass and buttocks was too much.
I came hard. Noisily. Heavily. Just from the force on my prostate, and the sheer fucking eroticism of it all.
Then him. I loved it when he came. Sweat pouring off him, head forward, his mouth wide open, his hair falling over his face.
I lay, under him. Stroking his body. Kissing him. Feeling his breath slow, his muscles loosen. Then we moved. And I fell asleep wrapped up in his arms. Waking every now and then, and luxuriating in his smell, his strength, his bigness.

Morning came. His beauty in the sunlight. Kisses. Moving. And then more.

But that’s for another time.

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