The Historian occupies a special place in my… heart? brain? cock?

Here are a few facts about her:

1) She’s not, actually, a historian.

2) She is, actually, really fucking hot.

3) She is also, actually, really fucking smart. (There aren’t a lot of people who intimidate me intellectually. She does.)

4) She has this phenomenal wavy hair.

5) She has these phenomenal, full, round breasts.

6) Her mouth is not like any I’ve ever encountered before.

7) She’s super enthusiastic when it comes to giving head. (She tells me guys routinely tell her she’s the best they’ve ever experienced.) At the risk of offending her or anyone else, I’ll say this: my experience of virtually every good blowjob, when it’s happening, is that it’s the best I’ve ever had. But the memory of the sensation of her mouth on my cock haunts me often in her absence.

8) She’s extra fun to fuck, too.

In our previous times together, I had been the dom, she, the sub. This time, she had told me she wanted to get rid of the explicit power dynamic, and so we did. (She seemed surprised I was open to this; I’m not sure why. I like women. I like sex. I like her. The idea I might only like dominating her strikes me as weird.)

We had been platonic, or at least, mostly so, for almost three years. We remained friends after we stopped fucking. I never stopped wanting to fuck her, but her circumstances made it impossible. Or mine did. Or she didn’t want to. Or some combination of these. (I was certain she didn’t want to.)

But three dates ago (last Spring – we were on a semi-annual cycle), we found ourselves in the desolate backyard of a bar, alone, making out. And one date ago (this year), we found ourselves on her couch, making out, agreeing not to go further. Reluctantly.

And then there was our last date (also this year). After making out on her couch, she made it clear she was ready to fuck again before we even made a plan. The bar at which we met was almost pretextual. Not quite – it was somewhat… lubricating… but we weren’t there for long. I didn’t tell her what to wear. I didn’t instruct her at all, for the entire night. (Well, except that at one point, I told her to suck my cock, and at another, to ride my cock.)

We walked – it was a long, cold walk – to her apartment. There wasn’t a frenzy when we got there – we were deliberate, slow even.

Damn, it was hot.

She sent me a lovely, flattering, and hot (in an almost entirely sapiosexual way) written account of the evening. I was intimidated. I couldn’t possibly match the quality or style or content of what she wrote. I took forever to get her anything more than a stammering “Um – that was hot.”

But it was.

Afterward, I emerged on her desolate block. A film about 19th-century Brooklyn was being filmed there, and though it was 3 in the morning, the block’s transformation was preserved. A trolley with dummies dressed in period costumes sat on her corner. Several doors from her, an “apothecary” was shuttered for the night. Carriages were parked where one might expect to find cars. It was surreal.

She can make me stammer any time.


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