1. Frustration

Transcript

I matched with Oscar for his accent. There's something about Irishman that feels rough in every great sense of the word. When I walked into the bar, I was not at all disappointed to hear the hardness of his voice and the suggestion of a growl behind it.

I felt a shiver run through me from the boom in his hello and the bright easiness of his smile. We sat next to each other on an old sofa in the bar. Since we were sitting so close, I wanted to establish flirtation as early as possible.

I let my hand touch his knee once or twice and laughed and nodded enthusiastically, even though I only understood every other word he said. Finally, he took the bait and rested his hand intentionally on my knee as he leaned in to kiss me, pressing his thumb hard into the inside of my thighs as he did. The way he kissed me was soft and teasing, almost like he wanted me to chase after his lips with mine.

The real promise was in how he moved his hand slowly and slowly at my thighs as we kissed, pressing his fingers firmly into my skin and playing at the edge of my skirt. I taste a sweet tingle of rose on his lips from where my lip gloss must have rubbed off on his. I leaned in further to the kiss and grabbed the back of his neck as our kisses grew quicker and hungrier.

I nod and let out a deep breath, releasing the excitement of tension growing up my back. I watch him walk over to the bar and sink back into my seat. My phone buzzes with a message from Oscar, who is still within my eyesight.

It says, with a drooling emoji, I look up to see him leaning over the bar top. Stop drooling, you'll get the bar wet, I reply, giggling a little to myself. When he comes back, he kisses me again, this time lightly as though he were only trying to taste my lips before placing the drinks down on the table in front of us.

He leans back into the sofa and fixes his eyes on me with the slightest of smirks. A knowing smile breaks out on my own face as I start to breathe deeply enough to encourage him. I avert my eyes but return them to find him staring still with the same easy smirk.

He watches my face for longer than is comfortable, and all I can think is how much I want him to do all the things I hope he's thinking about doing. Pressure builds to the point that I feel I might explode if he doesn't kiss me again. I lean forward so that my face is hovering above his and decide to kiss him myself.

I let my hand graze playfully along his trousers. I move further up his thigh until he grabs my hand firmly by the wrist and holds it still, so it stops on the muscle on his inner thigh but goes no further. I can feel how his muscles are flexed from the tension.

Still kissing me, he places his hands back between my thighs, but this time more boldly than before, so that his thumb is grazing against my underwear, checking how wet I am. The answer is very. At first, he just rubs his thumb against me slightly, but quickly after, he wraps his hand around the innermost part of my thigh, pressing just below my groin so that I feel pressure against my clit, even without him touching it.

His hand is buried at my skirt now, and I become conscious, suddenly, of how public the bar is. You live close, right? He responds, after hesitating for a moment.

His hand drops down a little lower, along my thigh, but he keeps his salacious thumb grazing suggestively against my skin. You don't sound like you're sure. I'm sure, I just can't tonight.

Can't what? I've given up sex for Lent. Of course, he's Catholic, and it's spring.

The way he sounded each word out carefully was almost as hot as the words were disappointing. Walking home, I wonder if my Irishman fantasy might be a mistake. I could deal with the abstinence.

My real issue is the shamelessness of his teasing, the way when we said goodbye, he bit the bottom of my lip as he kissed me, how he slipped his hands up from my waist so that he could graze his fingers slowly over my breasts and flirt gently with my nipples so that a shiver runs through me as I feel them tingle. My phone buzzes with a text from Oscar just as I enter my flat. I want to see if that pussy tastes like roses too.

You cannot be serious, I text back, frustrated by the fact that I can still feel heat along my thigh from where he grabbed it. I'd bend you over my table and make you drip for me. I want to lick up the inside of your thighs.

Usually, I'd find sexting annoying and intangible. Maybe it's the unprecedented boldness of him or the fact that I can still hear the sheepish gruff of his voice, or that I can feel my nipples respond to the idea of his tongue on my thighs. I rush my jacket off and let it drop to the floor, lift my skirt and feel my way into my underwear.

I am leaning against the back of the door in the hallway, too eager to make my way to my room. My left hand holds my phone open to our conversation, so I still have an easy view of it. The other is buried between my thighs, discovering just how wet I can get from these messages.

Touching myself in this moment feels so much hotter, remembering that his hands were just there. As you're dripping down your thighs, I'd slowly massage my cock against you. My mind floods with the recollection of the firmness of his hands, remembering the way he grabbed my skin, taking charge of it.

I find myself breathing deeply, surprised by what these images are doing to me. And again. Until you get wetter and wetter for me, I'd massage your clit with the tip of me until you moan and beg for me.

Would you spank me? I respond, struggling to type with my left thumb. Hard enough to bruise if you wanted it.

And I believe he would, too. He would grab my cheeks before raising his hand back and bringing it down across my ass just to watch my skin bounce. My mind imagines the role of the R as he pronounces the word hard, and I am touching myself more and more vigorously.

Right before I push myself inside you, did you feel me throbbing against your clothes? I recall, again, our kiss goodbye, and how I could feel him get hard as he played with my nipples. My mind flashes with vivid images of him thrusting his naked body against mine.

The firmness of the grip with which he would grab me by my waist, my thighs, my neck. I feel his hand over every inch of me. As he fucks me, he isn't gentle, and I am squirming as I throb and twitch while his grip holds me in place.

I can barely hold my phone up anymore as I start to twitch more and more. I let it drop to the ground and stop replying, using my hand instead to massage my breasts. Hurried gasps escape from me, and my body vibrates aggressively as I bury my hand deeper into myself, imagining the girth of him inside me.

Despite the build-up to this point, I am still caught off guard by the climax. In a moment, my breath stops, and a shiver runs from my groin up the lower of my back and comes out of my mouth as an exclamation. The next morning, I wake to a message from him that reads, Maybe you don't want that? I text him.

I'm so sorry. I got distracted and fell asleep. Terrible manners.