The Captain 2

After sleeping with the Captain, I couldn’t get him out of my head. I had a legit high from sleeping with him for five days – yes, five whole days before it eventually tapered off.  I felt more relaxed, happier, and somewhat euphoric.  My mind would flashback to moments from that night:  him going down on me, to the way his tongue ring felt against my clitoris, to how he fucked me from behind, to how he dominated my body.  At night before bed, I would masturbate to those visuals and relive the experiences, getting high all over again. It was my favorite way to fall asleep.

I eventually texted him a week and a half later to see if we could set a date for round two, but he didn’t respond to my message.  Literally, no response.  I wasn’t sure if I should feel rejected or offended, or both.  I just figured its common respect to respond to a person when they text you.  That was how my previous booty-call type situations were (prior to meeting my ex-husband), kind of like setting an appointment.  As much as I wanted to be with him again, I decided not to text him anything else and eagerly hoped I’d hear from him again at some point.

In the meantime, I learned we had some mutual friends in common because he had bragged to a few of them about sleeping with me.  Of course, they came back to me and told me everything he said, and it made me chuckle.  I guess sleeping with me was kind of a big deal for him because I was 32 and he was 24.   I was surprised he would advertise it, but thinking about it, I guess it makes sense.  I wasn’t offended anymore at all, but instead felt validated that the sex must have been good enough for him to brag about.  It quieted some of my own insecurities from my failed marriage around sexual satisfaction and rejection.  And since our sex wasn’t a secret anymore, I asked my friends to tell me more about him.

I learned that he was a “fuckboy.”  Many of you probably know what that means, but this was totally new vernacular to me.  I had been out of the dating/hook-up game for over six years, I was clueless.  When I asked friends exactly what that meant, the consensus was that you can only use a fuckboy for sex.  One friend made it simple, “A fuckboy isn’t good for anything really, other than sex.  He won’t call you back and sex may only be on his terms, but if you are okay with that then feel free to go for another round.”  The entire conversation about him was incredibly captivating; I, too, was emotionally closed off and just looking for a hook-up.  And knowing now that he was a fuckboy, I was confident that I’d be hearing from him again at some point.

Two weeks after I first texted him (with no response), he finally reached out to me.  We texted and sexted back and forth for a few days, reminiscing about what we had done the first time and talking about what we wanted to do to each other the next time.  Just texting back and forth with him was exciting – especially the flirting and his desire for me.  He talked a big game suggesting multiple rounds and wanting me to sit on his face.  The idea of being with him again was so titillating that it made my face flush and palms sweaty; I couldn’t wait to have him again.  We arranged for him to come over my place after work on Sunday and kept foreplay-style texting for the rest of the week.

Sunday morning came, and I woke up early to the sound of rain drops on my bedroom window.  I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t.  I was nervously excited the whole day in anticipation of what was to come later that night.  I wanted more of what I felt and experienced the first time, that five-day high.  I allowed the sex flashbacks to flood my mind again – I was already feeling higher.  As the day went on, I tried to quiet my thoughts by changing my bedsheets, doing laundry, and tiding up my house a bit, but I could not stop thinking about him.  As the sun began to set, he finally texted me for the first time that day. Hi

I smirk. Hey

What’s up?  he replies.

Nothing. What’s up with u?  I try to play it cool and want to wait for him to take the lead.

Just got outta work.

Cool. I respond. There was nothing else to say.

How was your day? He finally responded three minutes later.

Pretty good. Ended up being off work so just did lots of errands. How was urs?

That’s good and work was shitty. I wondered why this was the course of our conversation.  Isn’t he a fuckboy? Doesn’t he know how this works? We don’t need to talk about anything other than what time he is going to come over my house.  I decided not to text anything else and wait again for him to initiate.

Twenty-two minutes later he texts, So what’s the plan?

I shook my head after I read those words.  I realized that he wasn’t going to be the one to initiate.  If I wanted him to come over tonight, I knew I had to be the one to make it happen, so I did. U coming here

Seconds later he texts, What’s your address I’ll head right out.

I sent him my address.

Leaving now.

And exactly 29 minutes later he texts me, Here.

I was eager to see him and greeted him at my front door.  He was wet from the rain.  He was dressed in rust colored cargo pants that hugged his muscular quads and ass.  Up top he was wearing a looser black zip up hoodie.  His hair was tied up in a messy man bun.  We said our hello’s, how have you been’s, and chatted about nothing.  I didn’t want to know or ask anything personal for fear it would ruin the fantasy in my mind.  And he was a fuckboy that wanted to get laid; he also kept the conversation light.  The simultaneous need for emotional distance was perfectly timed.

As we kept talking, I walked over to the kitchen and opened a bottle of red wine.  I needed something to calm my nerves a bit and I poured myself a glass of red.  I offered him a beverage and he politely declined.  We made our way back over to the living room and sat down next to each other on my brown sectional sofa.  I sipped my wine as we sat there in silence for almost an hour awkwardly watching HBO’s Girls on tv.  I wasn’t sure why there was such a delay in initiating on his end, but I still wanted him to make the first move.  So, I eagerly sat there and kept sipping until he finally put his arm around me an hour later.

When he touched my shoulder, I could feel the butterflies in my stomach start to fly around.  I felt my heart rate speed up and felt a warmth come over my entire body.  I began to think about all the fun we were going to have and what we said we were going to do to each other. The anticipation I was feeling was palpable.  I knew it wouldn’t be much longer for him to make his move, so I kept my eyes on the tv.

About thirty seconds later, he put his hand on my cheek and turned my head towards him.  As he leaned in to kiss me, I closed my eyes and breathed in his rugby-boy smell.  When our lips touched, I remembered how they felt from before – somewhat rough, yet smooth – and our movements started to feel familiar.  I loved feeling his tongue ring in my mouth and got more turned on thinking about where it would be going next.  My heart continued to race, and the butterflies continued to fly around like crazy in my stomach.  Our make-out session didn’t last long before he pulled away from my mouth and pulled me over on his lap. He was finally taking charge.

I was eye to eye with him and everything in that moment went silent and still.   The fact that he was starting to take charge made me feel more relaxed and more at ease.  I ran my fingers through his messy knotted hair and untied his man bun.  I put his hair tie around my wrist, grabbed his scruffy face with my hands and pulled him towards me.  I began to kiss him again and began to move my hips around in his lap; I could feel that he was slowly getting aroused.  After a minute or two, I pulled back from our lip lock and took my shirt off up over my head.  He then reached around my back, unhooked my bra, took it off and threw it on my living room floor.  He grabbed each of my breasts with his cold rough hands, pulled me closer towards him, and began to kiss my nipples.  His mouth was warm, and his tongue ring felt cool and hard.  Everything in this moment felt easy, like breathing, and it quieted all the nerves I had been feeling that day.

As he continued to caress and kiss my breasts, I felt shills run up my spine to my neck.  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to enjoy the feeling.  I felt relaxed and was beginning to get my high from him.  But as my mind slowed, I think his mind began to speed up.  Only after a few more seconds of touching my breasts, he spun me off his lap and stood up.  I could see that he was now feeling anticipatory, rushing through foreplay.  As he stood, I laid down on the long chaise side of my sofa sectional.  He looked down at me with a smirk, grabbed the ends of my yoga pants and began to pull them off. My thong came off next.  As I laid there completely naked on my back, he stood at my feet and stripped down to his boxers.  His body was just as I remember it: strong, manly, and muscular.  He got down on his knees, pulled my legs over his shoulders, and went right on in to tongue fucking me.

There was no more hesitation on his end; he continued to take charge.  His movements were slow and firm, thrusting his tongue deep inside of me. With each thrust, his tongue ring would hit a certain spot that made my legs shake.  He licked up and down my clitoris, tracing it with his tongue, lighting sucking on it.  With each motion, lick and thrust, I breathed deeper and heavier.  I was getting closer to orgasm.

Unfortunately, what started off nice and slow, soon became more aggressive and erratic.  He began stroking his tongue up and down on my clitoris faster and then rapidly inside of me.  Back and forth, up and down, in and out; his movements were spastic.  It was so intense, that my clit became very sensitive and I lost my orgasm.  And before I even had a chance to ask him to slow down, he just stopped.  It was sudden, and apparent that he was continuing to rush through the motions.

He stood up, took off his boxers, and reached for his jeans off the floor.  He pulled a condom out of his pocket, opened it up, and put it on.  I lay there in a kind of trance, confused about what just happened and starring at him.  I got lost for a moment looking at all the tattoos on his amazing body…on his thigh, his quads, his arms, his chest, his back.  I notice there are more of them than I saw last time.  His whole vibe was such cocky-confidant.  I was incredibly attracted to him and determined to make this encounter worthwhile.

Once he put on the condom, he laid his warm strong body down on top of me and put his penis up to the opening of my vagina and paused.  It felt reminiscent of the first time, just a few weeks prior.  I wanted to keep feeling that high, that high I had been anticipating all week.  “Go slow,” I said.  And slowly in he went.

It felt so good.  Physically, we were in sync, moving back and forth.  It’s as if his penis was the perfect fit for my vagina.  Being in that moment with him was such an amazing feeling, all of my worries and troubles disappeared.  It was as if we were moving as one.  And with each thrust, I felt more at ease.

Back and forth we went in missionary position.  His body moving back and forth over mine, his breathing, his smell…all began to take me higher.  I was really starting to get into it when he said, “I’m gonna come.”

“No, not yet,” I said in a soft tone.  It was too late, he had already finished.  I was disappointed and frustrated.  And for a second, I was even angry that I didn’t get to finish.  But, then I remembered that he said we would go multiple rounds!  The anger and frustration turned back into anticipation.  I was excited and ready for the next round. I was all worked up and ready to go.

He pulled out and stood up, again standing over me as I lay naked on my couch.

“So, can we go again?” I asked.

“Usually it takes me a couple of hours to get it up again,” he replied.

“Oh, no” I said softly sounding disappointed.  “Ok,” I said.

All that talking about sitting on his face, multiple orgasms, and multiple rounds never happened.  And I realized that multiple orgasms and multiple rounds was never going to happen with the Captain.  He was a fuckboy, and not a very satisfying one.  There was no point for him to stay any longer.  We put our clothes back on, and he left shortly after.

The Captain’s round 2 was a complete and utter disappointment.  Looking back on it, there were multiple signs that this would be a failed effort.  The weeklong texting and sexting was all talk, and he had no follow-through.  The anticipation made me build up this sex conquest in my head to be much more than it could ever be.  I felt rushed in the beginning, and then when I began to feel more relaxed, he began to rush.  He had no follow-through and was not actually about much of what he said.  He was also weak in initiating coming over after work and in initiating in person (he sat through an hour of tv before he finally kissed me, come on now…let’s get to the point).  Overall, we were starting off the evening from the top; there was no where else to go but down. I guess reality was always there, but only now was I able to see it – he’s 24 years old and disguises his lack of confidence with cockiness. He could never be the dominant Captain of the Rugby Team fuck fantasy I had created in my mind.  I learned that next time it would be better to have no expectations.

Either way, once he left, I was left feeling horny and needing a release.  I went to my bedroom and masturbated to finally get fix.  Immediately after, I got back on Bumble and began swiping left and right, looking for my next target.

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