Erotica Stories: More Ways Than One

21 July 2021

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Jerusalem Mortimer‘s sexy story about a man who discovers many more ways than one of satisfying a lover in one night.

Nolan stared wide-eyed at the ceiling while Fiona snuffled lightly, sleeping on her side beside him. He had known her for about six hours.

Mandy, his ex-wife, had asked him to a party, to keep her most recently dumped boyfriend away. The party was in Bloomsbury, and everyone but him seemed to work or study in London University’s Philosophy Department. The rules that were supposed to keep staff and students from having sex with each other were coming under sustained attack from both sides. Mandy soon found herself a baby-faced neo-pragmatist tutor with white spiky hair, and they retired to a couch. Nolan retreated to the kitchen to find alcoholic consolation.

So his job was done. He looked about him and found there was a pretty girl watching him. No, not pretty; she was beautiful, with grave green eyes and long, glowing black hair. He didn’t know why she’d look at him, but he couldn’t let it pass, so he gestured vaguely about the room, which was full of courting or kissing couples in all gender combinations. “This must be how they make little philosophers,” he said. “Surprising there aren’t a fuck of a lot more of them.”

It was too much to expect even a girl with an empty champagne glass to be amused by that, but she pursed her lips. Nolan didn’t mind. He liked her lips and felt he would whatever she did with them. Then she smiled. An angel is born, Nolan thought.

“Philosophers,” she said, as if that explained everything. He nearly jumped; she had a broad Glasgow accent. She was a home girl, though he’d shed his accent. “We’re a randy lot.”

Nolan said: “Someone accused Bertrand Russell of being anti-American once. He said, ‘How can I be? I’ve married five of them!’”

This time she did laugh. Russell, the old goat, was funnier than him. She was in her twenties, he guessed, much younger than his forties.

He put his hand out, and she took it. “Nolan,” he said, pointing at himself so there could be no confusion. “Not a philosopher, I’m afraid. Lawyer.” She didn’t let go of his hand.

“Fiona. And–” she pursed her lips again “meta-ethics. Who was that woman you were looking after?”

So Nolan explained, and she approved. He realised that was why she’d been staring at him. They talked about vampires, since they’re funny and unconnected to philosophy. They showed off. And then, after he’d fetched more champagne and they’d talked and laughed for about an hour, they fell silent. Nolan was a little out of practice, but he knew that Fiona expected to be kissed, and that the conversation after that would be short and mostly about taxis. With a sense that a miracle was happening, he kissed her.

“He touched his tongue into her wet-velvet groove, and let it slide up and back while she sighed”

Then things rushed, and he was in her bed. She had small, apple breasts and sturdy thighs, one of the many ways in which women can be perfect. He was not perfect – far from it – and he left his T-shirt on to hide his paunch.

He rolled onto her and kissed her nipples, feeling her thighs rise to clasp him. The last time he’d done this was nearly a year ago, but the wonderfulness was familiar. Except… his cock didn’t rise. He closed his eyes, trying to jam blood into it by force of will. What, he thought furiously, the fuck is wrong with you? You’ve pulled way above your weight, she’s a hot girl and she wants you! But his cock stayed soft. He looked at Fiona. “Sorry. I seem to have stage fright.”

He knew better than to insult her by saying, It’s never happened before. Fiona smiled. “You can kiss my cunt, love.”

“Oh, I will, oh yes indeed.”* She can’t have met many men who didn’t have an erection when she was naked*, he thought, but he was grateful for her grace. He wondered if thinking she was perfect was part of his problem. But she was perfect, so he couldn’t do much about that. He kissed his way down her body, stopping a while at her shallow little navel. Then he kissed her cunt and spent a second admiring her lips, pursed like her mouth so often was.

He touched his tongue into her wet-velvet groove, and let it slide up and back while she sighed, almost but not quite touching her clitoris. Fiona was soon a wet girl, a juicy one, and she pressed her delicious thighs to his ears. Encouraged, he slipped two fingers into her, and for the first time focussed on her clitoris. Fiona gasped.

“Lie back, boy, and I’ll do you.”

He sped up, and she sang a little, tunelessly and happily. Then she tightened her thighs, and Nolan realised she was stronger than she looked. She wailed, a deep wrenched noise but melodious like whale song. He continued, and the noises came again. So did she. He tried for three, but she gripped his hair and stopped him. “Nolan, boy. You can do that whenever you like. Come up here.”

So he crawled back up her body. Sexual success usually made him hard and firmly focused on getting more. But he was still soft. He couldn’t focus. He dampened down his fury and shame, and said, “Hell. Sorry.”

Fiona said, “Lie back, boy, and I’ll do you.” Nolan obeyed, and found her hair over him like a curtain, concealing her face while she cooed encouragingly at his cock. She licked him like a cat with cream, then sucked him like a lollypop. Nolan tried to focus, watching her breasts sway above him, but he couldn’t, and though he felt desire he stayed soft. At last she gave up and looked up at him.

He said, in the accent he’d shed, “It’s a wee bauchle, tonight.”

She hit him, delighted. “A shauchly wee bauchle! Ye’re a sly one. Ye never let on ye’re from fookin Glasgee. Ye bawbag.” But she was laughing, and she bounced her way up his body to reach for something in her bedside drawer, while he admired her arse. She passed him a small vibrator no longer than his finger, though wider. There was a ring at its base. She waggled it at him.

“For future reference, meta-ethicists like it rough”

“Don’t you worry about your boaby. You’re getting me off nicely without it. And … you’ve had drink. And work, I dare say. You’ll likely be thirsty in the morning.” She meant, “thirsty for me.” Nolan nodded. She was probably right. “Here, slip this on, boy. Finger-fuck me.” She lubed it and passed it to him.

Nolan accepted it but then closed with her and they kissed, comfortingly at first, then passionately. He slipped the ring on his finger, and pressed the vibrator on. It pulsed loud and hard against his finger. He looked at her, startled. “Oh, I left it set on full. For your future reference, meta-ethicists like it rough.”

He said, “I’ll remember.” He swivelled it so it rode on the back of his finger and, smiling at her, pushed his finger and its pulsing partner slowly into her. Then he pressed his finger down into spongy skin while the vibe went high. Fiona grabbed his shoulders, her mouth open. He handfucked her hard, ramming his finger and vibe into her, not too fast but firmly, and, when after maybe ten minutes of that she said, “Fawwwk!”, he sped up, thrusting hard and fast. She lifted her knees till they almost touched her breasts, and ululated again.

She might have stopped but Nolan didn’t, and shortly afterwards she screamed, eyes and mouth wide and joyous. He gave her a short respite while he counted to twenty, and then began again, taking her slowly, but gradually increasing the pace. The third time she came, her back and arse left the bed, her muscles taut and her body rigid. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. The scream was silent, and then she fell back, gasping like a marathon runner.

“Had he started something? He thought, reflexively, that he hoped not, and then realised that he hoped so.”

When she’d recovered she called him darling, sweetest, bannock-bum and worse. He rolled onto his back, and she accepted a place in the crook of his arm, and they talked about families and work, and exes, and so on. At last she said she was too sleepy to talk. “But I’ll see you in the morning. And, um, when you get it up, ma puir cunt is the wee bit sensitive, I think. So you’d best take me up the.­” She waggled her arse, and even in its current uncooperative state his cock felt that.

She rolled away and soon began to snuffle, like the purr of some immensely cute hibernating mammal. A baby bear, Nolan decided. If his cock crew in the morning, they might be lovers. Certainly, she was lovely. His eyes widened. Had he started something? A … relationship? He thought, reflexively, that he hoped not, and then realised that he hoped so.

He was skilled at getting out the door in the morning, fast as possible. Here he didn’t want to. She was prettier than him, cleverer than him, and she’d almost certainly had more sex in the last year than he’d had. But she seemed to like him. He remembered that she’d watched him looking after Mandy. Maybe she wanted kindness, just then, and he’d happened to be there at the right time.

There were cobwebs in the corners of her ceiling. Maybe she wasn’t perfect either (she is, ye bawheid, an inner voice insisted). He forced himself to stop thinking, and rolled over to spoon her, and try to sleep. The morning wasn’t another day; it was already after midnight. But it was another morning.

*This story by Jerusalem Mortimer is part of a series of posts exploring sex with ED and other penis issues.

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