The 25 Hour Second DateBrown Eyes My Dating Life NSFW / Sex 

The 25 Hour Second Date

The 25 Hour Second Date

I still need to find a name for this guy and I really can’t think of one. I’ve gone and slept with him now so he definitely needs a name. He can’t just be number 45. Shit. Number 45?! How did that happen?

(Clearly that’s the reason this blog is anonymous.) 

The date almost didn’t happen – he thought I was going to blow him out and then I thought he was going to blow me out and then we blew each other out… Long story short, huge misunderstanding, all sorted out after a cuppa and some cool-off time. We agreed to meet and make the most of the last day of Easter anyway. We had such a great first date, I was pissed I wouldn’t get the chance of a second because he’d gotten the wrong end of the stick.

The whole Storm Kate thing put a shitter on things, closing off the bridge he needed to drive over to get to where I lived but soldier on he did and, after driving for over two and a half hours on what should have been a 20-25 minute journey, he finally called me to tell me he was parked around the corner.

I’d gone casual again this time. I wasn’t really sure what the date was going to entail but after our stoned-in-the-park first date, I was fairly sure heels and a pretty dress wasn’t the way forward. I went with cute turned up jeans, some adorable black strappy flats I’d been dying to wear, and a My Little Pony tee that makes my boobs look huge and my waist look tiny. Straight hair this time because he’s already seen it curly, I was rocking the cutest frilly white thong, one with a Broderie anglaise (?) design, knowing he’d love it. Not that he’d get to see it of course. This was our second date after all.

*Second date or not, I would be well prepared. He got a tattoo, I reckon we’re past the point of moving at a ‘reasonable pace’. 

(And I wonder why I’m at number 45…) 

He picked me up and we came up with a plan – we’d go back to his (bridge permitting), watch a movie, he’d cook me dinner and be “the perfect gentleman”, dropping me home whatever time I got bored of him later on that night. He was “in the wrong” earlier on in the day when he’d started the petty fight so every ball was in my court – we could do whatever I wanted to do. I agreed to go to his, check out his pad (he seemed to want to be all house-proud), eat his food (he can cook too apparently) and watch a movie. That was all I would commit to. I play cute-indignant very well.

That was the plan. What actually happened was this…

“Let’s just stop off at the shop, I’m picking up some weed and I want to get some munchie food for later.” 

“No worries, I want to grab a bottle of juice too then.” 

£30 worth of candy and snacks later, drugs safely stashed in his wallet, we didn’t even bother cooking dinner. We watched lame movies, got really high, chilled out on the couch and munched our way through £30 worth of candy and snacks. We actually Netflix & Chilled. And we didn’t have sex. (Yet.)

In true teenage style, we smoked and heavy-petted, made out, air-humped, munched out, smoked some more, drank some juice, watched some movies…. So on and so forth. The hours of 9pm to 1am were reserved for exploring, clothes on, hands going all sorts of places they shouldn’t, mouths following not far behind. It was awesome. If you’ve never been a thirty year old teenager, you should totally give it a shot. We’ve had two dates and both of them have been amazing. At one point, he’d turned me on so much I had to run to the bathroom to check I hadn’t started my period randomly. My underwear was so wet, I couldn’t control myself. It was four hours of hardcore foreplay and I’d like to challenge any woman to sit through that dry-panted.

He ran his fingertips softly along the lengths of my arms as he spooned me on his big black leather couch, and when the goosebumps started to erupt, he kissed the back of my neck, gently first before following the softness with sharp little painful nips from his teeth. It was relentless, hands all over me from behind, hard and soft, grab and release, up and down. By the time he rolled me over to slide my tee over my head, I was a mess. Every touch seemed to make my breath catch in my throat. He pulled my bra down a little to take my nipple into his mouth and when he bit it harder than I figured he might, I let out a little moan that I’m pretty sure turned into his green light. He growled at me, actually making a growl-noise, before pulling my jeans down and forcing my knees up in one swift movement.

I remember the exact moment his mouth connected with my pussy because it was the best feeling I’ve ever experienced. I don’t know if it was the drugs or him or the whole four hours of heavy petting but that moment… I want to bottle it up and keep it in my pocket for super special occasions. It wasn’t a hard touch, it wasn’t soft, it was just perfect, a kiss and a lick all in one shot. It ruined me, my legs trying to straighten against his shoulders, forcing my body up and my head over the arm of the couch as he mirrored my movements and moved up with me. I was so turned on, I came in minutes. I didn’t need to concentrate, I didn’t need to think about it, I didn’t care how much noise I made or how hard I was shaking. I didn’t care that we hadn’t even slept together yet and he was already going down on me, or how much of me filled his mouth when I came. What I did care about was the noise he made at that exact moment I exploded, that growl again but this time, gruffer, deeper, much more intense. I really turn him on. He really turns me on. You can’t fake that. You can’t force that. That growl… Wow.

“I’m not fucking you on my couch.” 

He took my hand and lead me to his bedroom. There were candles lit (I have no idea when he did that!?!) and he put some music on his iPhone before laying me down and covering me over with the duvet. He takes care of me. One minute he’s rough as fuck, teeth all biting, hands grabbing and leaving bruises, and the next he’s a big gentle giant, cradling me in his arms and making me feel so tiny, helpless, taken care of… I’m pretty sure this right here is everything I’ve ever looked for in a man. Everything from the crazy impulse tattoo to the way he looks at me as he tucks me up in his GIANT bed (the biggest bed I’ve ever seen in my life) makes me melt. I’m a melt. I’m like a real girl around him, all giggles and stupidity and cuteness. That’s how he makes me feel – contented, giggly, happy. He felt so big next to me in that massive bed. When he wrapped me all up in his arms, I could have happily stayed just right there forever. Not that I’d have a choice. He stiffened his arms around mine as he rubbed the tip of his growing cock against my pussy and I couldn’t move at all. I tried to edge myself lower and back a little so that he would slide inside me but he kept his arms stiff, not letting me move, driving me nuts.

That’s pretty much how the rest of the night went. He fucked me in his bed for a couple of hours, switching between brutally fucking me hard and slowly trailing his fingers all over me, kissing sweetly, softly, gently. Then we smoked and ate munchies, drank juice and listened to music on the couch, kissing and fucking a little bit more. Back to bed, more fucking, some snoozing, and then an 8am wakeup call, his cock already inside me prompted by my already-soaked pussy backing on to him in our spoon position.

He’s a 42 year old man and he came eight times in 25 hours. I stopped counting mine. Who cares? It was amazing. He promised me an “out of body” experience which I snorted at before he got his hands on me. I don’t really know what an out of body experience is meant to feel like but I know the 25 hours I spent with him really did feel out-of-this-world amazing. If this was a TripAdvisor review it would read a little something like:

“Great entertainment, excellent stamina, a little overpowering on the whirlwind-romance side of things but definitely one I’d try again! 5/5 stars!” 

A few of the beautiful blogging girlies joked on Twitter about us getting married on our second date because he got the tattoo after the first. That joke isn’t so funny now. He told me I was the girl he was going to marry. I was his soul mate. He’s never felt like this with anyone before. He doesn’t really date. He’s been in two long-term relationships for most of his life and he wasn’t really looking for anything, his Tinder profile a joke more than anything else. (It really was but it made me laugh. I’m a sucker for humour.) He’s never felt anything like how he feels when we’re together. He’s never been married but I’m the perfect woman for him already – I’m “wife material”. He knows I’m the girl he’s going to marry.

And then I said something super dumb. Why did I say it? Because I was stoned and I got carried away with his nice words. Because I figured I might as well get all my cards on the table nice and early because what’s the point in wasting time if we know from the beginning it won’t work…?

“I’m going to want kids someday. I’m almost 30. You’re 42 and you already have three grown-up kids. How would this work? Theoretically if I’m the girl you’re going to marry?”

The 25 Hour Second Date…….

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